


Interregnum

by bowblade



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: F/M, Gen, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2016
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-28 10:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 108,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8443192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowblade/pseuds/bowblade
Summary: An unstable Kingdom, its regency on the brink of collapse, plagued by the Dead. A man who wields bells against them in chill waters. A hunter who knows little of the future, save that a necromancer will be the one to kill her.It always leads back to Death, doesn't it?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> (Alternatively: the story of how Sabriel’s parents meet, fall in love, attempt to save a collapsing Kingdom, and send many, many Dead back into Death in the process.)
> 
> The events that lead up to - and following - the death of the regent, twenty years prior to _Sabriel_. Beyond passing knowledge of the original trilogy, this fic is spoiler-free.
> 
> Written during Nanowrimo 2016, and a work in progress! As you can see by the wordcount, I reached 50k around chapter 16, and then immediately despaired because I'm nowhere near finished. My original estimate was 80-90k, but I reached the end of the second arc at 95k, so who even knows at this point. I don't. (The third arc was attempted for July 2017's camp, and I finished about fifty percent of it. I'll get there, eventually; my chapter estimate is about 37, and I'm entering the endgame, so hopefully I won't veer off again. But you never know.)
> 
> Unbeta'd and given a brief edit so I can post it online, but when I'm done (whenever that is), I'll definitely be going through it again to unpick myself and make improvements. Hopefully, as it stands, you'll enjoy this crazy effort to write a prequel about two extremely minor characters because sometimes, when ideas come along, they just don't go away. Thanks for the struggle, me.
> 
> The prologue is set post _Goldenhand_ and aside from mentions of Ferin, there's no spoilers.

Lately, Mogget had taken to visiting with surprising frequency.

Sam wasn't sure how he was getting in. Last he checked, the walls outside his tower lacked footholds or lips, and the slit for a window hardly qualified as a cat-flap, enter-as-you-please. Not to mention the raging, bitter, biting sea in its winter months, and a fair few grumpy, stern patrolling guards on the nightwatch… even if the prior would be the only thing to serve as a deterrent to the once-servant of the Abhorsens.

He had long passed questioning how Mogget was entering, at least - little surprised him about the cat anymore. One moment the night was quiet and empty, with soft embers from the fire in the kiln, lazy moving Charter marks across the wall and ceiling: and the next, a soft purr as a cat white as the fresh snow outside stretched adjacent to the furnace, claws leaving score marks across the floor.

Perhaps it was just the lure of the fire after all. 

Mogget rarely spoke on such visits, timing them for when his least favoured people would be asleep and less likely to pester him. Namely Ferin, Sam had noticed. Mogget might appear for his mother every so often, and then once to swipe a prize fish from Touchstone because old habits die hard, but with Sam… there was a friendship, an alliance. A tolerance.

And then there was Ferin, whom he avoided. The same could not be said for her. She had endless questions for everyone, but even Mogget's non-subtle refusal and steady rebuke washed over her like a stallion's charge that just kept coming. He seemed practiced, but her will upstaged his. That? _That_ was frightening.

And Ferin got on famously well with Ellimere for it. Of course.

With his attention wandering away from his latest invention, the Charter marks began to dissipate and dance around the room, windborne seeds on the air. The supposedly sleeping cat reached out with a paw to grab at them as they skittered away into the stones, back to the Charter, avoiding his playful grasp. Sam paid it little mind – he knew how these nights were scripted - until Mogget opened one slit of an eye, greener than Sam remembered, and watched him in that relentless, thoughtful way of his.

"What?" asked Sam, the cat's look bordering on uncomfortable. He felt no need for customary greetings and acknowledgements as a Prince should - Mogget never gave them, anyway. He would either get an answer, or the cat would return to his fireside bed.

Tonight was an answer. "A thought," the cat replied, after some debate. His limbs had disappeared into white mass, and Sam was reminded of a slipper… if a slipper were capable of drawing blood from unwary toes. "A reminder. How many years ago, now? Twenty? Forty? Someplace inbetween? Memory fades, familiarity lingers."

Riddles. The cat was ever-fond of those, even now, and Sam thought about sighing. But he didn't. "Of what?" he pressed, hoping for focus.

Silence. The eye closed, signalling the end of the conversation. 

Sam was just about to turn away to salvage what was left of his idea (it couldn't be really called a _thing_ , not yet, it was still a jumble of interlocking, loosely woven marks at best, with nothing to pour the spell into) when the cat surprised him with two open eyes, and his undivided attention.

The loaf that was Mogget shuffled, but his legs didn't reappear. "Tell me, Prince Sameth, how much do you know of your grandparents? Maternal," he clarified. They both knew about the fate of his paternal line, and the night was too quiet, too peaceful, to disturb it with the chill such a discussion would bring.

Sam's brow creased. An odd question with little relation to his first inquiry, but if Mogget felt like talking, he wasn't going to spurn him. Besides, the subject matter was one that was not often breached. Sabriel rarely spoke of her parents: at least, not in Sam's company. Touchstone likely knew, and felt, more of it - and it was more right for him to know, and not her children. Sam knew that his grandfather, Terciel, had been led to the reservoir by his uncle, Kerrigor – much like his aunts, his father's mother – and had been slain there. Not slain, but held, spirit adrift from his body too long to return to life. It was a hurt that clouded Sabriel's eyes when she spoke of it. Dealt with, accepted, and not regretted… but a hurt. A private one, and Sam was wise enough to not intrude. He knew enough, and the hurt belonged to Sabriel alone. It was unkind to pry.

It was easy to see his parents as unflappable beings, steadfast and resolute, undamaged: and as a boy, he had. It had been something to see that look in her eye, however guarded and locked away, and to know his parents were not. Now he knew better, almost lost them too many times beyond counting, lost them truly once… and he knew that responsibilities meant bearing your decisions, for good or ill, and some things stayed, scarred over. 

Sam's fingers absently traced his wrists.

Sabriel's mother, his maternal grandmother, he knew… nothing. Stories of Terciel's visits in Ancelstierre sometimes crossed Sabriel's lips, stories of travellers, an idle wish here and there of longing for the sort of bond as Abhorsen and in-Waiting as she had with her half-sister, happier memories… but there was never a word of her mother. Hazily, all Sam could recall was that she had died when Sabriel was born, so she never knew her.

"Not much," was the answer he settled with. It was a good answer for all grandparents, regardless of which side of the family they came from.

"Odd you should remind me of them."

"Who? Terciel?"

"No," the cat said, with barely a shake of his head. "Nerysiel." It had been a long time since that name had crossed his tongue, and with it came a whole host of faded, washed-out memories, none of which he could relate to Sam.

Sam, for his part, had not had a name until now, and he grappled with it, trying to match it up to an unknown woman who had long since departed from the shores of the Ninth Gate. Someone without defined Bloodline traits was harder to picture. "I'm like my grandmother?"

He sounded doubtful. He wasn't sure whether to be offended when Mogget let out what he thought was a sneeze, but was actually a snort, a mockery of such an idea. "Oh, no. You're nothing alike." He muttered something that sounded a lot like _'she'_ and _'spine'_. "Other fires, other truant marks on nights such as this. That's all."

"That's all? You can't just leave it like that!"

"And a fish," Mogget interrupted with a yawn, nonsensical. He could, would, leave it at that. "For the morning." 

Sam felt exasperation cut him deep. Keeping Mogget on a single thread of conversation for long enough to get anything out of it was like trying to get his sister to abate before calling out the latest perceived faults in character. Or not, because one of those things had relented after Orannis, and it wasn't the cat.

Sam stood, abandoning his work bench – it was late enough, he was tired, the cat had him thinking about long gone relatives and untold, never told stories – and the cat's yawn caught as he stretched. At least he knew the cat planned to stay until morning. Maybe he would tell his father, so that he could follow through on the numerous skinning threats that might still apply, even if Mogget had saved the world since…

No, he wouldn't do that. His promise to Mogget had been fish, and fish he would procure, even now. The built trust gave way to more than just tolerance, despite Mogget's carefully guarded quips. Sam wasn't stupid. Mogget wouldn't keep coming back, otherwise.

He gave him one last glance as he left the tower, even though he knew Mogget wouldn't follow him down and away from the fire. Sam's bed called to him at last, warm and clean, and with certain individuals away from the capital on business, he wouldn't be woken again anytime soon.

The same could not be said for the little white cat, as the feigned sleep vanished as the door shut and his eyes snapped open. He stood with feline grace, not pausing to stretch, moving away from his valued fire that Sam had left alight for his private use (how considerate of him, and foolish), and jumped up to the workbench, taking care to disturb nothing. There he skirted the circular rotunda, weaving between odds and ends, clambering from one shelf to the next, until he could see the night beyond the fingers-breadth window.

The chill air, the fire, dancing Charter marks and the same moon in the sky? A ripple went through his body, ears to tail; to any onlooker, the belated stretch, but a stretch it was not.

It was true. Nerysiel and Sam were nothing alike, but the night itself was, and now that… woman… was in his head, she wouldn't leave again as easily. 

He thought of her, of days long passed into the Dead's memory. Some of the darkest days in the Kingdom, stretching on for years… it was a simpler time when the Dead wrecked havoc and nothing held them in check. What could one Abhorsen and the ice-witches do? Bloodlines were lost, and it had been a time when he was still bound to a cause he cared nothing for, each master falling to give rise to another, and nothing changed. And then it had plummeted, that history, one last dive of a phoenix bird before it rose again from the ashes, with Sabriel and the restored prince Touchstone at the head.

But it was in Terciel's time when the Kingdom had fallen and crumbled, its regency lost – a time when all hope next to vanished. A time that had also been hers. Theirs. Them.

The fire beckoned, toasty and inviting. 

Mogget shook his head. When would he learn to not reminisce over such unwanted, troublesome things?


	2. Part 1: Nerysiel

There was at least an hour to go before dawn, for the sky had developed a hue of pink and orange over its native pitch. 

The soft hues were a good sign, as it was likely at least the morning would be bright, perhaps warm; but also a bad one, for the rain was finally over.

It had rained for at least a week in the Old Kingdom, and even though that made everything more difficult – taking carts to market, hunting, occupying children, selling wares – it had also made the rivers swell, and for most, that would be their only defence against the Dead. The rain itself would not deter them, but the bursting banks would: and it was with a practiced, troubled eye that many of the Old Kingdom's denizens watched the rising waters. When the rain stopped, it was unlikely it would come again as autumn gave way to winter; snow would fall instead, which didn't quite have the same effect. The rains would indicate the potential freeze and thaw in spring, and the more of it, the better. But too much and horror stories and rumours circled, of Dead who were brazen enough to skate across a frozen surface in pursuit of life. Most of the time, they fell in, their weight cracking the ice and dragging the rest with them. But some made it.

For those that were already awake, it was easy to push aside such pressing-yet-distant troubles, at least for that moment. With the inky light throwing complex patterns through raindrops, paint blots on its canvas of trees and wheat and cart, it was a sight few got to behold, and even fewer got to stop and marvel at it.

Nerysiel saw it, but she had seen similar mornings with similar effects. Right now, she was more concerned about traipsing through the squelching mud that had once been the road, and her boots were caked in it. 

Charter help her, she could already imagine the hours she would have to spend _cleaning_ them, added to the hours she had spent repairing them for hopefully another winter's use. When they were new, she could reach into the flow of the Charter, her magic ample enough to at least persuade the mud away, but now? It was more likely the boots would go and the mud would stay. She didn't want mud-shoes, thank you very much.

She kept plodding along, occasionally making extended stints on the slightly less trodden grass. Neither place was pleasant. Most would perhaps be tempted to take a shortcut through the woods to High Bridge - her destination - but Nerysiel knew better. 

These woods were not the place she took to hunting, for they were quiet, and still. These were the woods where the Dead waited. 

Every now and then, some bright spark in her village or those around it would motion to push the Dead back for good, but nothing ever came of it. Sometimes what was left of the Regent's armies passed through and eased the ever-present problem, and sometimes even the fabled Abhorsen dealt with a greater menace… or so they assumed, because it just wasn't there anymore and no one saw who had lured the creature away. Her village hadn't seen an Abhorsen-worthy menace for many years, not in her lifetime, and she was grateful for it. 

But no matter what they did, the Dead always came back.

When she was younger Nerysiel had been one of those bright sparks, but that was before she hunted, before she understood how things were. She didn't have to like it, but it was better for the Dead to take the forests in wait and snatch a life here and there rather than mount an assault and have everyone be lost. 

Better not to bolster their numbers, as many who had unwisely pursued them had, only to come again, this time with opposing intent.

Her life could be snatched too, if she weren't careful. Nerysiel's mother, Kestrael, hated these excursions before dawn. She never saw her daughter go, but she always saw her return, and with it, came the telltale frown. She never said anything, but Nerysiel knew, and she never said anything back because they both knew that there was no choice. The night was dangerous, but someone living had to walk it.

Kestrael was a healer, a surgeon, and an improvising Charter mage for the cluster of villages that had grown closer and closer to High Bridge in recent years. The closer they were to water, the safer they were, in theory. Nerysiel had never lived in the same house for more than three years before they had packed up their belongings and moved closer to High Bridge, but never to it itself. That didn't matter. In a few years, she supposed, High Bridge would swallow its surrounding farms and pack-up villages with no-name. In some ways, it already had. To the barters in the market who came from further afield, there was no difference to her origin.

And she had to go at dawn, because being a healer was a thankless job. Thanks were given, certainly, but it was not by saving a person's life that Kestrael put food on the table. That was Nerysiel's job, and why she hunted. She could skin just about any animal, hunt and take down a bear if pressed. Bear meat was tough, but it was edible. On some winter days when the sun barely rose, it was that or starve.

The rest of the year, most of Nerysiel's haul would be eaten that day. In a village of twenty-four there were four hunters, including herself, and they were often pressed to the limit to get enough to provide for their families, let alone everyone. But it was a job that had been given to them, and the means of survival. You most often didn't get a choice in what you wanted to become, these days. Hunting wasn't the first on the list of things Nerysiel wanted to do, but she was talented, quick with a bow, swifter still with a knife, and her cuts often brought the best price, which took her to market for provisions they could not find or make themselves. Most things were bartered, but on days like today, when she had nothing to barter, she would take coin. Her understanding of money was rudimentary at best, but her father had taught her what he knew before he died in the bandit raid that had led to move number four, and she could haggle. But sometimes it didn't make a difference. A fresh carcass often spoke louder than the jangling of gold. 

Food was something none could do without. 

Dawn continued to pick itself out across the sky, and the dew glinted. Nerysiel was close, now, close to the overcrowded fortress that was as much a danger as a safe haven. There was a reason she loosened the knife in her boot – that cursed mud, why was it threatening her prized knives – on her steady approach, no longer the only human on the road. Better safe than dead.

Most dawngoers were friendly, those with hats tipping them in acknowledgement, those without pointing the newest ways through the mud soaked lane, the best passages changing on a morning basis. Some Nerysiel recognised, and some she didn't. She stopped to help a struggling farmer and his oxen make their way clear of a mud-trap, and was paid with an almost fresh apple. Slightly bruised but salvageable, and still tasty.

Apple seeds were always a good commodity for those who could afford to stay in one place long enough for a tree to grow.

Nerysiel's boots thanked her as mud gave way to stone and her pace slowed, the woods behind and the beginnings of the bridge ahead. There were a few guards – mercenaries, she suspected - hired to warn for the Dead and little else, as she'd never actually seen them stop anyone before. The majority spilled across the parapet, a convenient seat, and one was leant against a wall, dozing off, but coming too when each person stepped by him with a jolt.

She didn't join them, exactly, but she hoisted herself up onto the stone wall and then sideways, one leg poised above the river, the other bent at the knee, using her seat for ground. The latter was one with the knife, and her hand lazily traced the rim, in case anyone got any bright ideas about pushing her off into the river or mugging her. It was unlikely in the open air, but, better safe than not. A wise policy for anywhere in the Old Kingdom. 

Settled, Nerysiel stifled a yawn, the yawn of someone who willingly starved themselves of sleep. She could, if she had wanted, have gone later to High Bridge. It would be another hour at least before an ample number of traders came to warrant the process and her day could truly begin; what could have been another hour of blankets and warmth, and less travel before the dawn, and a lack of windswept bridges, as her flyaway hair reminded her. She could have gone straight on inside, with more light, less shadows for danger to conceal itself in…

But she had chosen not to.

Well, it wasn't really a choice. There was another reason Nerysiel was out on the road so early, and that was the nightmare.


	3. The Nightmare

When she was young and had a bad dream, it was her father who always came to find her.

It was intuition, he had said once. He just knew.

Nerysiel had been an energetic child. She went about everything with a tenacity that bordered on troublesome, and it was not the kind of trouble that came from climbing a tree and getting stuck there, or running fast enough to fall and hit your head. All children disobeyed an instruction once in a while, but that wasn't it either - Nerysiel was troublesome because she craved knowledge. It was difficult to placate a child's _'why'_ with a _'that's the way things are'_ when her questions were pointed and insightful, and quite often without answer.

(Where did the Charter come from? What did this mark mean, and that one?

If the Dead were supposed to be dead, why were they not?

If the Old Kingdom was a _kingdom_ , why did they have no king?)

Her mind may have been keen, but Nerysiel had nothing to sharpen it with. Wanting to see, wanting to _know_ , meant she saw things she shouldn't. It was hard to avoid the rotting flesh of a leg or an arrow puncture infested and blood, so much blood, with her mother a surgeon, and it was harder still to avoid the clicking of misshapen, disconnected bones that stalked the village shadows and took the life it wanted.

And the shrill scream that was the last noise its quarry made.

She had never forgotten the first time she saw a Dead Hand in all its gory glory, fingers curved like daggers. Daggers embedded in a chest that until then had been her mother's sister, too slow to escape, and her, too curious to see what her father tried so hard to protect her from.

How _scared_ she had been.

Nerysiel didn't fear Dead the same way now. It had been replaced by sensible fear and the dread that came with it, kept close and nurtured by everyone she knew and met who had encountered them. Though she was not afraid, that image remained in her mind with perfect clarity.

Two lessons had been learned that day. First, to never slow down and look back when pursued; and second, that sleep would be the time when you would most clearly remember. She had bad dreams about that night for months, but they eventually softened, easing. It was a strongness, a growing up, that came early to the children of the Old Kingdom. Nerysiel lived with a healer. She knew what a body was able to survive.

The Nightmare – definitive and all – would not have been entirely unexpected. Her mind had plenty of source material to work with. She had endured no less before, face pressed against the rough material of her father's shirt, owls hooting somewhere close yet far, marking the night as safe, alive. 

That first time she dreamt it, her father did not come, because she was fifteen, and he was long since burned – and, she hoped, long since deep in Death, unshackled and not wanting for a taste of former life. With her father she never had to scream, thanks to his instinct. That time was different. The choking scream was what woke her, but it was a dream scream, one that never made it to the waking world - and even with it, the dream could have been dismissed as what it was. A dream.

If not for the pain that accompanied the waking.

The pain was what struck her. Nerysiel's neck pulsed hard and intense, a thousand hoofbeats gathered at the site of a bite, a bite that swam with blood and would quickly claim her life.

But there had been no bite, as her fingers clutched her neck. No redness came away, because there was no wound. Just a sickly sheen of sweat - and the inexplicable pain, a recollection of a bite, drawn from within her subconscious. 

Or was it?

Her dream was this.

She was on the border with the Dead infested woods, close to Highbridge. She knew her home was behind and also close, but it was not an area she recognised, and was likely not a place the pack-up village had been forced to neighbour itself with.

Yet.

She was in hunting attire, parts of it missing, not warranted so close to home. A patrol, perhaps. Her bow crested beneath her hands, sturdy and familiar, and an arrow was loosely nocked into place, but it pointed at nothing save the ground. She was creeping forward, feet familiar with the roots of the trees, tricks of the forest floor, slowly – achingly slowly – heading to territory in which she did not tread.

No sounds, no noise, except her shallow breathing, her fast-beating heart. Long rotten leaves dared to make her presence known, each step muffling a crunch. One beat to listen, one to step forward, one for the security of her bow, but there was nothing obvious to find, or avoid-

-and then the trees, branches twisted and reaching, tugging at her hair and clothes, thinned out. Not much, but it was enough.

Nerysiel saw her quarry in a flash of sudden movement and empty space and her bow rose to match.

It was a Hand, slumped over between the trees. It was a disgusting thing, covered in mud and leaves and rotting leather and… flecks of flesh. She felt sick.

It was not close enough to shoot cleanly, and she had to get closer. Her arrow was Charter-spelled, and it quivered in her firm grip, the string being pulled back a signal for it to burn, marks for fire set to ignite the moment they struck a target. It was all she could do to exert her will, as prey stalked predator, step by step, inch by inch.

The Hand seemed to be looking at something. In every retelling it was always occupied. What exactly caught its interest she had never seen, but it was the moment, her heart hammering fast, fast, faster, that the Hand inhaled and stood, turning, facing her.

Its dead eyes and lopsided jaw were horrid and filled with glee. Prey! Prey at last! 

It was then Nerysiel saw that it was not a Hand after all, but a Free Magic monstrosity, a revulsion, with a bandoleer across the darkness of its chest-

The arrow went wide as the thing loped towards her, hands scrambling for more, spitting white fire and horrible, horrible music as it went. Every muscle tells her to move, but she _can't_ : not to take another arrow from her quiver to save her village, nor to run to save herself. She had to make her stand and this was it, she had to stop, stop, stop it-

It doesn't stop, but it also doesn't reach her first. Skeletal fingers wrap around her neck and teeth sink beneath her skin.

That was the part where she woke up.

An abrupt ending, but Nerysiel had never needed to go back to reach a conclusion. That was the part where she died.

It had felt so real, and she was inclined to think anything that felt real was just that. Real. But if it were real, that would mean she was to die, and she couldn't accept that. Wouldn't.

Nerysiel told her mother about it that first time - the Hand, the forest, the Free Magic being of fire and bell, because she knew she would listen. Her mother had frowned her disapproving frown, but not for what could be taken as disapproval of an overactive imagination. It was the notion, the threat, that a necromancer would attack her people. Not now, not tomorrow, but someday. Kestrael was wise to circumstance, and years of keeping intuition and feelings in the gut close in order to survive meant even a dream had to be taken seriously. 

But she didn't like it.

Kestrael also had no answer for why the faint print of a hand – and teeth imprints - came, and went, on her daughter's neck either. For a dream to leave behind a trace in the waking world was far outside her realm of knowledge and could only mean something terrible.

They agreed not to tell anyone else. For once in her life, Nerysiel had no objection. No one needed to share in that fear and potential loss. Fortunately, the nightmare didn't happen with frequency. Unfortunately, it knew just when to strike. It was intermittent, creeping back in after months of silence, when life in the village was easier – not easy, but not hard, with the sun bright and river high, and it was then it returned, a looming, distant cloud.

The first few times, Nerysiel told Kestrael it had happened again. But reassuring conversation rapidly became silence and foreboding, so Nerysiel stopped telling, and Kestrael stopped asking. Instead, Nerysiel's day started early and she covered her neck, and Kestrael frowned, and they both knew.

The only thing Nerysiel had never shared was that she _died_ at The Nightmare's end. And every time she had the dream, it felt closer, almost as though she were on the precipice of it happening.

Not yet. But with one leap, a single step? It would.


	4. Breakfast Summons

Down in the kitchens of the Abhorsen's House, a gong clanged.

Terciel was familiar with the sound. It was a prefix to every meal, a summoning of sorts. Right now, the Abhorsen was calling her ken – him – to breakfast, and like the diligent successor he would eventually be, and the apprentice that he was, he would attend.

Or not. 

Terciel made no motion to leave his bed of entangled sheets and blankets and limbs, sheets that were now pulled up over his head in response to the noise reaching his room, in a feeble attempt to drown it out and feign ignorance. 

Clearly, it hadn't worked, but with his present exhaustion he thought he deserved at least some recognition for the effort. Charter spare his aunt's wrath, but right now, his legs were leaden, his arms numb, and the last thing he wanted was to be vertical and indulging in eggs and toast and important conversation.

_Important conversation._ He groaned, a gruff sound, burying his head deeper into his pillow. That was the reason for the call, as ever, but it was as if he had forgotten the most simplest of bodily functions… save to lie prone in a world of white goose down and no responsibility.

In fairness, Terciel's tiredness wasn't exactly his fault. As heir apparent, he accompanied his aunt on many of her excursions, and attended his own besides. It was not uncommon that their attention be forcefully divided: of late, that was the way of things. 

On this occasion, they had gone together, and had spent several blurred weeks tracking, fighting, avoiding, separating, reuniting, dispelling, seeking – and that was without mentioning a fair few escapes following close calls – and sleep had been snatched and precious. 

The Abhorsen had been generous, extending the first period of rest to him at every stop – which guiltily, he had taken, for it was rightfully hers – but it hadn't done much. Even after near a decade of working in alliance, what he didn't fear in his waking hours prevented him from going to sleep with the worry of what might happen if he were unconscious. Rousing quickly to attention was not something he enjoyed doing, the lost adrenaline and relaxed muscles making him clumsy. 

What if he made a mistake?

And so, nights had passed, and with each one, Terciel traversed the threshold from being 'tired' to being 'too tired to sleep'.

He slept more easily when he was back in his own bed, such as now. He had planned to sleep until mid-afternoon at least, but he knew it wasn't that late. The brief smattering of light through half-open curtains that had been hastily drawn the previous night told him it had likely been a mere four hours since he had collapsed into bed – five in total, if he counted their initial return to the House.

If he were one to cry, he would have. Instead, he chose to rebel. Fifteen minutes and no breakfast and _then_ the important conversation would be perfect. Everyone would be happy.

It was not to be. His hands grappled for snatched sheets as they were torn clean from him with precise familiarity, leaving him naked and blind and blinking as sunlight hit him square in darkness accustomed eyes. 

Reluctantly, focus came.

Two Charter Sendings stood over him – not counting the one at the foot of the bed, the perpetrator of the sheet theft. The nearest Sending clucked with annoyance, Terciel's selected attire tossed neatly over its shoulder. Spun with Charter marks, the Sendings were capable of any domestic task in the house, including getting rebellious Abhorsen-in-Waitings out of bed. 

Terciel stared at them. They, presumably, stared back.

"No," he said, firmly.

The Sendings didn't listen. Terciel had never known them to be patient nor gentle, and they weren't now, shoving his pillow aside as they took his hands and pulled, and he would have gone face first into the stone floor if the third hadn't caught him around the middle. One second he was in bed, and the next he was swaying on his feet, dragged unwillingly away from his almost-gained fifteen minutes.

The brisk autumn air hit him like a thousand pin-pricks against bare skin, counteracted by the unceremonious upheaval of a bucket of kettle-hot water over his head – neither modesty, nor cold, were things that Sendings cared about. Terciel merely jumped in objection, not opening his mouth, as sulphurous water was something he had learned tasted revolting the hard way.

Between buckets, he asked half-heartedly, "Can I at least dress myself?"

The Sendings ignored him. Bucket after bucket was tossed over his head as every inch of him was scrubbed. Only when he was dressed in breeches and slippers, shirt and a buttoned blue surcoat decorated with silver keys, was he pushed out onto the landing and given control of his faculties.

And then consequently abandoned, as his door shut with what could almost count as a slam, if Sendings were in the habit of slamming doors. Probably a complaint about the state of his gethre and miscellaneous attire that he had come back into the House in, he thought, for all of it was covered in filth, and was lying somewhere in a dark corner of his bedroom floor to be dealt with that afternoon, maybe.

Despite their apparent protest, Terciel had to give them credit. The next time he saw his armour, it would glisten. 

Except for the Bells, of course; those he would have to clean himself.

As he hurried down the landing to the stairs, slippers shuffling underfoot – might as well try not to invoke too much anger from his aunt – he idly wondered at the great trust they had placed in him to attend breakfast without an escort. He chuckled gently under his breath without much humour, because they had been the ones to rip him from his mattress. 

_Senile, impatient things_. 

The laugh quickly dissolved into a yawn, and he raised his hand to cover his mouth. Several different Sendings moved out of his way to allow him to pass, and he nodded to them in acknowledgement, each inclining their cowled heads ever so slightly in return. 

Except one. The small, dwarf-like-man-that-wasn't-a-man following them didn't, and Terciel stood a little straighter, just in case – but the dwarf-man to, stepped aside, albeit belatedly. Terciel thought little of it, and kept going with his almost jog. Now he was out of bed and forced to exercise, toast and eggs didn't sound so bad after all.

He smelled it before he saw it: the rich, pine-scented bacon wafting in from the dining room, proving itself as the most efficient lure to any young man. A tang of honey, the crunch of toast… how did he ever dream of staying in bed and missing out on this? In that regard, the Sendings certainly weren't going to disappoint.

Terciel slowed, composing himself as he entered the dining room from the hall with a steady stride. Purposeful, as if he were not late, but timely. The long table, the dining room's main feature, was, as always, empty – except for the far end, piled high with fresh bread and melt-in-the-mouth butter; the sizzling bacon he had smelt; eggs from at least a dozen chickens; jams and marmalades, and much else besides. 

Behind the most welcome sight of food sat his aunt in the high-backed chair, her dark eyes fixed on his entry. The Abhorsen looked much the same as the last time he had seen her, when she had waved him away to his room; but cleaner, her greying hair still damp behind her ears. Had she gone to bed at all? He couldn't tell.

The Abhorsen's elbows were propped against the wooden surface of the table, chin resting atop her withering hands. She didn't move back as she addressed him. "A pleasure in having you join me, Terciel."

The way in which she said it made him feel like the boy he had been, not a man in his middling twenties. Telltale beads of sweat blossomed on the back of his neck and forehead. He hoped they weren't noticeable.

"Yes, well, the Sendings, bless them, decided that gracing the breakfast table unwashed wasn't open to negotiation." If he were still that boy, he would have laboured on with his excuses. Now, he settled for her eyes narrowing in partial disbelief, because he had long since mastered the art of plausible explanation. That or the Sendings were very predictable and his story had some credibility given her also recently washed state. Terciel made his way down the table, reaching for the chair to the Abhorsen's right to pull it back, but ghostly Charter-spun hands beat him to it and he was ushered into place. "How did you sleep?"

The Abhorsen didn't answer, unlocking her hands and dismissing the hovering Sendings with a wave, who were likely keen to start distributing food onto plates. "That will do, thank you." They scattered back to the kitchens, disappointed, but Terciel didn't interrupt. His aunt was… deliberate, in what she did as well as what she said. She would address him only when she was ready.

As the door to the pantry closed, she turned to the one Sending that remained, not part of the kitchen crew, and added, "The message, if you would." It bowed, also leaving the room. They were alone.

Messages this early in the day did not bode well. Whatever buoyancy the morning had brought sank deeper than Terciel's slippers. His appetite might as well have been forgotten if the Abhorsen hadn't looked at him with a quirked eyebrow and said, "If you don't want the bacon, I'm happy to eat your share." 

From experience, she meant it. He piled the bacon pretty hastily onto his plate after that. 

They ate in silence. After weeks of hard biscuit and stale bread, it was something to savour before their work inevitably began again. Terciel was in the process of adding a generous helping of marmalade to his bacon on toast when it did, as the head Sending returned with thick, folded paper, which it deposited to the Abhorsen's left, then retreated back the way it came. The uninvited guest brooded across the table as he chewed, but what had been a delicious combination felt dry and tasteless in his mouth.

He waited, but the Abhorsen said nothing. She was watching him but pretending not to, something that had become familiar in recent months. A sizing up, he supposed – that was the only way to describe it. Had she taught him enough? Was this man worthy to stand in her office when she could no longer?

If they weren't Abhorsens, it would have been morbid thinking, and morbid still that he had figured out her unspoken thoughts. But they were Abhorsens, and so, it wasn't. Death, and its finality, was their trade. 

He tried not to think on it, but soon, sooner than it would be later, he would be the one sat in her chair. The Abhorsen's chair. And there would be no one sat to his right, no one to study beneath him.

He would truly be alone. The empty seats at the table stood testament to it. It was not by choice that only he had been summoned – there was no one else to summon.

As he so often had to, Terciel chose not to dwell, clearing his throat before that inevitability overcame him. There was a present to see too first, and with that, came time. "The message," he started, ignoring the remaining mushed bread and eggs on his plate. "Shall I read it?"

The Abhorsen nodded. "Please do," she replied.

Grimly, Terciel stood, but only to retrieve the paper. He sat back in his seat straight after, banishing the urge to slump. Business, then. Always business.

Though he'd intended to read it aloud – an unspoken acknowledgement that words had begun to jumble themselves for the woman beside him as the years had marched on – a hasty unfolding revealed that the paper was, in fact, quite blank. There was only a single Charter mark on its surface, its glow lost in the soft sunlight that came through the open windows.

The Abhorsen had known that it was blank, Terciel was sure; she likely knew the contents already. He had expected something written, likely transcribed from Message Hawk, but to send a message such as this? It indicated hurry, a complexity of events, and most of all, trouble. 

And, a small voice inside whispered, why did she wait for him to take the lead? 

But he didn't falter, masking any surprise by pushing his plate aside, laying the parchment open on the table, and pressing two fingers to the mark's centre, reaching into the Charter in one fluid motion, easily finding the mark of activation it required.

The Abhorsen looked away as he did, posture returning to the way it had been when she was waiting for him to arrive. But her eyes were vacant, and they saw nothing.

A woman's voice filled the room, as if she were sat at the table beside them. A Clayr's voice, if Terciel was not mistaken.

_"It is happening,"_ the voice began. _"Soon."_

A pause. The Clayr, in their Glacier where they watched for possible futures, rarely admitted to a soon. An eventually, a possibility, a perhaps, but a _soon_? That was as definite as night giving way to morning, day giving way to the stars; the pause gave weight to the gravity of what she were about to say.

In that small, empty second, Terciel felt dread.

What had been one voice became two as the missive resumed. _"We hope this message finds you both, for you will both be needed."_

One voice. _"Abhorsen, and Abhorsen-in-Waiting. We have watched. It will be soon."_

The other. _"We have Seen. It will be soon."_

Both.

_"The regency will fall."_


	5. Midnight Blue

There was nothing quite like the High Bridge markets in autumn.

The statement was a common lie to draw unknowing folk to the city in prospect of fresh trade, not that it needed it. Nerysiel knew the markets were busy at all times of the year, especially as each season passed to the next and needs changed. 

No matter what had happened during the night – whatever Dead or Free Magic thing had slunk from their hiding holds and fed, reaping the populace in quiet – the markets were always the first to recover. In autumn, the nights were long, and more people vanished. With the morning, bodies were burned and other streets used, and it didn't take people long to find the new location of the sellers. Families quietly mourned, as families do, and events that had passed were not spoken of in polite company, outside of hushed whispering. It was the way things were. Murders did not stop the needs of those that lived.

Autumn was also the time when locals were over-careful, and spent zealously. No price was too much, and goods swapped hands at a feverish rate. Those in charge of these transactions raced about lightning-quick, calculating the sum whilst procuring the amount of gold for another, and theft was common, but so was punishment. Thieves waited and took little, not enough to be missed or noticed, and the dance went on. 

As it would for the next few weeks, perhaps longer – the harvest was in earnest, and many came from much further afield than High Bridge to supply themselves for the winter. Even some of the Regent's Guard were there, striking deals with a lucky few to provide for Belisaere. Whilst not as big and proud as the capital had once been, it still had a lot of hungry mouths to feed. This was the way of High Bridge, year after year.

After all, the only guarantee of winter was that there would be death, and with them, the Dead.

A benefit of getting to High Bridge early meant that Nerysiel had plenty of time to scope out the prizes on offer. True, she only witnessed the goods entering from the Chasel side and not The Westway, but it was still half, and half a market's contents scoped was better than nothing. On quieter days – or busier ones, when the bridge crossing was slow – Nerysiel negotiated out on the entryway itself and walked away without even entering the city.

Not today, though. Despite being layabouts, the guards had been watchful, and though it didn't break a rule, if she held up a moving line… well, she would rather stay on their good side, personally. Nothing she had seen on the incoming carts was of the village's highest need anyway, so it seemed she was to enter the belly of the beast after all.

Vendors set up stalls where they could, and no market was ever quite the same. Sometimes they spilled out of the city and down to the docks where fishermen had brought their catch, and others they trailed towards bakeries and houses. Today, though, most of it was across the bridge proper, open to the sun, an ideal place to be after weeks of rain. Though warm, the sun itself was weak, and the first few arrivals had not dared to descend into darker alleyways. Those after simply followed in their wisdom.

It was crowded – too many people, with all the jostling they were doing as women and men shouted, and someone shouted back in reply. Nerysiel wasn't a fan of crowds: frankly, she was unused to them, but experience had taught her that they were just as dangerous as the Dead woods she had avoided out on the road. The knife from its boot pouch was empty, safe in her sleeve – she'd never had to use it, and hoped she never would, but better safe than dead.

Right now, she was in hot pursuit of cloth. Sailcloth, if she could get it – it made for an excellent makeshift door or wall or even to simply carry a large amount of things. It was multipurpose, but it was also in high demand, rarely seen for more than a few minutes, and never, never, was the price haggled.

The small amount of coins in her concealed pouch hit against her thigh. Pitched in, it was a combination of her own made from kills and meat, plus what her mother and the other villagers had scraped together in contribution.

She knew she did not have enough for sailcloth even if she did find it. Leather or doeskin would have made a good substitute over coin, but that was something she never traded. Those things, she was wearing, as was her village.

If only she had more things to trade! But she couldn't complain. Nerysiel knew she was luckier than most here. She wasn't left with no option but barter or theft to feed and clothe and protect herself. She was self-sufficient, and what she couldn't do, her community could. For her, the market was a necessity, not a reliance.

So instead she stuck to the smaller things they would need for the winter. Hard cakes, jerky (she really wanted to avoid surviving on bear again like the year before), whale fat, spools of thread – whatever they couldn't make and what the forest itself could not provide. Sack after sack was produced from her person, and ware after ware went into them. With the amount she came to carry, it was fortunate she was strong.

She stopped once, close to the middle of the bridge, on the southern side. The Ratterlin was far below, its progress smooth and constant, a ship cresting waves as it passed under the bridge which gave High Bridge its name. The passage itself was wide; it could take more than ten minutes to cross under.

But it wasn't the ship or the sight of the sun, low in the sky, that stopped her. A woman, too close for comfort, tutted as she almost slammed into Nerysiel's back and had to weave her way back into the crowd, but Nerysiel's attention was on an adjacent stall.

Many pairs of boots stood to attention, line by line, on the cart-turned-table. Most were like her own – if not newer, and less likely to split into their component pieces at any given moment due to too much of any kind of weather or season. Still, it wasn't those that had caught her attention either, not even the newest, well buffed ones, but a single faded pair, right in the middle.

They were midnight blue, the colour of a summer's night, brief and temporary. They were dusted with something, a small silver pattern. It could've been stars, though they looked more like specks, as despite the light being filtered from winking between buildings, the silver still caught it, reflecting it back. They were, quite clearly, not hunters boots. More like… dress boots, for those with too much money than sense, because they would only be worn inside and never out, for parties and for show. Entirely frivolous.

She looked down at her own, swamped in dried mud, and back again at the blue pair.

She wanted those frivolous, without-use boots. 

Of all the silly things for her to want without a use, it had to be unusable boots. Not a tea-set, not a piece of jewellery, but _boots._

Typical.

She had obviously stared a second overlong because the vendor began a practiced spiel. "From Hillfair, very old." He cast a look down at her feet. "Would fit with some adjustment, yes?"

"Oh- no," she replied, startled. She had no idea what Hillfair was, but his sudden attention made her self-conscious, surrounded by so many people. "No, I don't need to make a purchase. I was only… looking."

Looking and thinking that they would have little use for a hunter.

She allowed herself to be swallowed back into the crowd, away from the overkeen vender, but she didn't get more than a few paces away. 

Children often populated the market, many acting as thieves or decoys, and others were there to wait whilst their parents went about their business. Those nearest to Nerysiel were shoving each other against the stone wall of the bridge, smearing dirty hands against it, with the eldest lounging in the small gap between buildings as if that were her throne. She gave a casual, customary glance towards the river… and she shouted, first loud enough to alert her cronies, then bystanders, then the market itself, all quietened and still as a portrait, listening to the child bawl its news.

"There, on the river! It's the Abhorsen!"


	6. A Chosen Path

_The regency will fall._

Terciel dropped back in his chair, all thoughts of proper posture forgotten.

The regency would fall. 

The regency had always been a fragile thing – a stitch to a wound that needed something that neither the Abhorsens nor the Clayr could procure. 

A regent was simply not enough. The Old Kingdom _needed_ the bloodline, and it needed the blood of a monarch to sit upon its throne. The Kingdom had lost the Wallmakers, and the Abhorsens too had begun to waver; there used to be so many of them, but not anymore. For two hundred years the two remaining bloodlines had stumbled on, buying time as the Charter waned… but if the Clayr were correct, their number was up.

The Clayr were not always right. But in this, with the certainty the simultaneous voices had given, Terciel understood.

They could See no future where they were not. 

_"The fall is clouded. There are many paths, but all of them hold merit. We know not which. Perhaps not until it begins."_

The other voice hesitated. _"In that, we may always be too late."_

Whatever else they had to say was lost to him, dull as a toothache. But like all toothaches, their words were relentless. Glimpses, flashes, suggestions, that it were imperative that they reached Belisaere and her regent. 

He doubted that much of what they could do would be of any help. This day was always coming. What would come after… that was the thing they had no answer for, but it was one that he and his aunt would now have to seek, and resolve.

The message ended, both voices going quiet. The Charter mark on the paper quivered, and was still, its message untapped, ready to be activated once again whenever the listener wished.

He didn't wish to hear it again.

Neither would the Abhorsen, though it was likely she already had. His tiredness, his bed, even breakfast, felt very far away.

"When did it arrive?"

"Shortly before we did." The Abhorsen's voice was distant. Quiet. "Hours at most."

The Abhorsen did not reanimate. She still stared at the wall behind the other end of the table, wearied and weighed by her responsibilities; and this abrupt knowledge, sudden and impressed. 

This absentness was as much as she would allow a declaration of the fall of the regency to get to her, Terciel knew. She had strength of character that he admired, one he himself tried to exhibit in turn. That kind of strength was a learning curve that only came with experience, but in the case of his aunt… despite the countless horrors and trials she had faced, they never overcame her.

But this was too much for even an Abhorsen to face alone. The Clayr would do what they could, as would he, his aunt, what remained of the guard, but this wasn't a war. It wasn't even a fight. It was inevitability, decided in a time long before living memory.

Terciel reached, uncertain, to place his hand gently against his aunt's arm. Just the fingertips, a fleeting reassurance that she was not alone, and it wouldn't negate her pride. They would face this, Abhorsens together, and they would overcome.

The Abhorsen blinked, and he knew she had noticed. A second passed, then two, then three, and on the fourth she reciprocated, hands separating as she then placed one downturned palm firmly over his. 

It was a tight grip, a crushing of fingers that could only be heartfelt thanks.

The Abhorsen breathed deeply, and exhaled, a low, whistling sound.

She was no longer shaken.

"How I had looked forward to a few days of rest," Terciel ventured, when enough time had passed for it not to be taken seriously.

"As had I, Terciel. As I had I." She smiled meekly at her apprentice. His humour never failed to ground her. "But duty, as ever, calls."

His returned smile was glum. "That it does."

She sat back, and they moved apart. He knew what his aunt was thinking, what he too, was thinking. All efforts to change the fate of the regency would be futile, but they had to try: now was not the time to give up. It was part of the job, really – the odds were always against them. A chance, no matter how small, was still a chance. 

And they, the last living Abhorsens, did not give up until it was spelled out to them.

Maybe not even then. At best, a change was coming; maybe the Kingdom would indeed fall once more, but it would continue on. Maybe not now, but in many years to come, something would happen and it would rise. A weakened Charter was still the Charter, and two bloodlines were better than none.

After all that, then, maybe he could look forward to a few days of rest. Or hours. Minutes would also be welcome.

But they had to get there first.

"Where do we begin, Abhorsen?" he asked, banishing his wayward thoughts in favour of focus. 

The Abhorsen was already thinking on their goal, rubbing her chin absently. "Belisaere is the obvious choice. But the regency has grown… complacent." Her other hand gestured pointedly as she spoke. "Each year brings familiarity, and that stability itself is dangerous. The regent himself might not believe the urgency of the Clayr's soon."

"Even if his life is at risk? Doubtful. Surely that would provoke some sort of response?"

"As I said," the Abhorsen's smile was wry, "complacency. It can be a great undoing. The regents have ruled for over two hundred years, waiting for a non-existent King or Queen. In their eyes, their stewardship is not so fragile."

"They see themselves beyond the need for the bloodline?"

His aunt nodded. Corruption was not quite her angle, but Terciel knew it was close enough. Honesty and kindness were traits that were difficult to find, their keepers few and far between. Where the Dead weren't, the living were, and within them massed bandits, cutthroats, pirates, mercenaries, liars and thieves, and all were well integrated into society. Many of those traits could be found in places of power, these days. Two hundred years was a long time.

The regency was far from the perfect figurehead, and yet… in their position, Terciel could see how they could believe it to be impenetrable.

There was the bloodlines, and then there wasn't. But a bloodline did not a good person make, and neither did blood without make them a bad one. But the burden of a bloodlines' gifts was an incentive.

The Abhorsen was watching him again as he mulled it over. She hummed softly, thoughtful. "What path would you choose, Terciel?"

His brow furrowed as he considered. Where _would_ he choose?

"We consider other things," he suggested, slowly. "If the Clayr cannot See, we find the source."

"How?" 

It was a gentle prompt, an appeal to budding confidence. 

He took it, eager, yet cautious. "The state of affairs in the Old Kingdom itself might be a cause. It isn't ours to govern, but the Dead take advantage that it isn't. We've both born witness to the numbers. And the interregnum has not been kind to the people… they could rise, convinced by Free Magic or bell or otherwise. It could be the Dead, or a necromancer in overconfidence, choosing now to test our limits… we know the Clayr have seen endless pieces and possibilities. Which to pursue? There are many ways for a regency to fall. But will it begin _in_ Belisaere, or elsewhere? That, I am not so sure about."

"Well, he certainly _sounds_ like the part he is to play. Must you all be so high-strung?"

Master and apprentice tensed, broken away from their world of possibilities. 

The Sendings were back, dutifully clearing the remains of the meal, but it was not they who had spoken, not that they could. It was the man-who-was-not-a-man, brazenly seated at the Abhorsen's left.

The albino was busy admiring his nails, running a thumb just beneath the rim in a vain attempt to keep them clean. Pointless, really, as dirt had long since embedded itself in the cracks of skin, and his robe was _filthy_ , as though he had been digging. Or swimming. Or digging at the bottom of a river. The bell attached to the possibly red belt had remained polished, unchanged by an earlier escapade, and his hair remained shockingly white, with eyes of a piercing green. 

It was a façade, Terciel knew. He was not quite what he seemed, but those answers were beyond him. Even without them, Terciel had never quite been sure what to make of him.

"Mogget." The Abhorsen's voice was laced with contempt. She, it seemed, had a clearer take.

"Forgive my interruption." Mogget ducked his head, enough to be servile. But he didn't sound sorry. If anything, he sounded pained, as if he would rather be anywhere else, but his binding meant that he had little say about attending. "Don't mind me. I wouldn't, if I were you. But I am here in the essence of a reminder." His eyes swivelled to Terciel, fleeting. Then his gaze lingered on the Abhorsen. 

She met it. The stand-off went on for several undisrupted seconds. 

Finally, the Abhorsen pulled back with a sigh and a blink and a breath. Mogget did none of those things, but that communication, he had won. Still, any smugness was lost when his fingers disappeared against his teeth, a fair better instrument to remove the dirt trapped beneath his nails.

Terciel had no idea what had passed between them. "What was that all about?"

"As he says," his aunt responded shortly. "He serves as a reminder."

"You think this is the first time we've had messages from the Clayr?" Mogget said between his fingers. Somehow, his voice remained clear, but it dripped with sarcasm. "Still, my capacity has been fulfilled. May I go now, oh Dead-defeating one?"

"No," the Abhorsen snapped. "I trust you remember the rest."

Mogget let out a long, defeated sigh, muttering under his breath with frequent dark looks thrown Terciel's way as if it were his fault for his current predicament and prolonged servitude.

"I fear I am lost," Terciel admitted.

"Not difficult," Mogget mumbled, smacking his lips together as he removed a still dirty nail from his teeth.

The Abhorsen gave the dwarf a pointed glare, and then looked back to her nephew, her features softening. "It means we will have different paths to walk in this, you and I. That much, at least, is clear. As it often has been in our own calling, our efforts must be divided." She looked at Terciel, _really_ looked, and he almost couldn't meet her eye. "I hope it is enough."

Solemn. A chill shuddered down Terciel's spine. He brushed it away.

The Abhorsen stood. "Perhaps it will be for naught, perhaps not, but it betters our chances. I will go to Belisaere, by Paperwing, to speak to the regent – for good or ill, I will assess the situation there. As for you, my Abhorsen-in-Waiting, you will follow the path in which you spoke. Look into those affairs. Find a source. Pursue it. For today, we will rest… but in the morning, we will set out once more, at first light."

She went from the room without a pass, dress flowing behind her, a picture of sophistication. But her path was hardly clear.

The Sendings, sensing a new development, had stopped their scurrying to-and-fro from the pantry. It was not just the few in the now-crowded room that Terciel could see. Throughout the house, they had come, crept down the stairs, away from their busyness. Those in the kitchens huddled in the pantry, a tight circle; more stood in the hall, close enough together as if they were one, and not many, a Charter sea with a path for only one.

All looked upon their mistress with invisible eyes as she passed by them, departing at last to her rooms, and sleep.

Terciel noticed their numbers. It would have been difficult not to. 

A thought overcame him, one he couldn't quite shake.

It was almost as though they were saying goodbye.


	7. Thread

"And then, she shouted, _'It's the Abhorsen!'_. Everyone was frozen, as if suddenly struck by the winter frosts," laughed Nerysiel. Her laugh was a bell, bright and cheerful. 

She was home again. Outside, a quiet pattering of rain fell - so much for it stopping for the turning of autumn to winter, but it wasn't quite as harsh as before. Now it was gentle, soothing as a lullaby. That, and only enough to be more of an annoyance than a hindrance, and surprisingly warm.

"I wonder how she knew," Nerysiel continued. "There was perhaps a handsgap either side of the girl where she was sat on the wall, and who knows how many paces down it was between her and the water?"

Nerysiel was sat in her make-shift room, atop her blankets and straw-stuffed mattress, piled on a haphazardly made wooden base – a passable representation of a bed. Its dividing curtain was drawn back, and she was watching her mother pace back and forth near the cooking fire. Night was coming early, and the pit was lit, but not for warmth, as a curious coloured stew brewed atop it. Nerysiel was familiar with said stew and she eyed it now grievously – it was truly the start of colder months if her mother took her carefully cut meat and tossed it without further thought into a stew.

Her mother's attention was part on the stew, and part on the spools of thread from the market, which she was dividing. The majority of the thread was unwound, a spider's web of criss-cross lines that were looped over thumb and finger and over the table top. Even Nerysiel's fingers had been claimed in the effort. There was little point of it, Nerysiel thought, but her mother was a creature of habit, and habit dictated that spools must be unwound and wound again tighter, to prevent the thread from going brittle from the inevitable frosts. 

Not only was it her preventative measure, but it would be easier to distribute amongst their neighbours – some of the thread would go to clothes and their fixing. Most would stay here and be used for injury, and that was why Nerysiel had specifically sought out the most expensive of it. Stitching up a wound was not an uncommon thing, and if often took place right here in the centre of this very room, where the weather-beaten table perched. Not on it, thank the Charter, but there was something to be said for friends bleeding all over the floor where you chose to eat. At least she had the decency not to skin animals inside.

Lastly, Kestrael's attention was also on Nerysiel, who had begun, in earnest, to tell her about her day. With those she knew, Nerysiel was a dynamic soul. She was a teller, a spinner of stories, and came alive with conversation, whether they were intellectual or no. Trust just had to be gained first, and her mother held a high amount. 

Even so, she had skipped out the part about waking up early because of the nightmare, or even mentioning the fact that she'd had it again. The non-matching buttons of Nerysiel's shirt, done up right to the base of her neck, told Kestrael the facts, even if Nerysiel refused to offer them. She always wore it open to just above her chest, otherwise.

"What about the flag?" her mother asked belatedly, when her rotating attention was back on her daughter.

"The flag?"

"For the boat, on the river. The Abhorsen have an emblem. That would be how she knew. Silver… something? Stars?"

"Keys," supplied Nerysiel. Stars were for someone else, and they were golden, but she wasn't sure who they were for exactly. Just that they were else. "Silver. The vendor with the midnight boots told me that as soon as the boat had passed. I didn't realise what the silver studs were supposed to be until he pointed it out, and then the colours made sense. Imagine it, mother. One moment, frightened from potential threat of Dead, and the next, keen to sell me those same boots again…" Nerysiel shook her head. "It didn't feel right to interrupt and tell him I already knew what he had to say."

"Hmm," her mother eyed her daughter, unpicking rows of thread from her thumb as she wound it, thread upon thread, to the spool. Satisfied, she sliced it with a knife in a clean cut, forming a new end and beginning. The thread was broken, just like that. "I question why you already know it, Nelle."

Nerysiel's hand went to her chest in mock offense. "I am a grown woman, mother! I know many things. Overheard and largely second hand, that's me-"

"Don't tangle it!" Kestrael interrupted, forgetting the scheduled stew check as the threads on her fingers grew taught. She scampered from kitchen to bed and began to fuss.

"It's _fine_ ," Nerysiel assured. She felt a little disappointed that the level of concern her mother demonstrated seemed to be received to her surgical supplies only. (Nerysiel, don't pick that up! Don't drop that! Where are the bandages, they can't have grown feet!) "I have never known thread to snap when you've called upon it. Not whilst in your care."

Nerysiel was sincere, meaning it. But Kestrael shook her head, barely a jitter from side to side. 

"All things snap."

Kestrael had meant it chidingly, but she sounded distant – and, to Nerysiel, i was almost profound. Kestrael herself would think nothing of it. Perhaps she had meant to say 'thread snaps', but that wasn't how it had come out. 'All things snap'. It was just another addition to Nerysiel's list of mentally committed wise words, thoughts about the world and how it was.

Satisfied with the white thread-wrap covering her daughter's fingers, and that it was indeed not tangled, Kestrael produced a fresh spool tucked beneath her lapel, and sat down opposite Nerysiel. She wasn't on the mattress, but the floor, and with a twang of foresight, Nerysiel knew Kestrael's back would pay for it later. But Nerysiel knew better than to interrupt, and set about to assist, manoeuvring her hands every which way as they began to weave, odd as it looked.

Minutes passed, mother and daughter working in tandem. The rain pattered, the stew gurgled, and the thread-ball began to take shape.

"I hope it's enough," her mother said. She didn't meet Nerysiel's eyes, as she was still winding.

"It will be," Nerysiel replied. She hoped. That was the last of her coin, and it was unlikely there would be more of it. What would be caught and grown and made would stay in the village, now, as they hunkered down to focus on their survival. Summer was not as fortuitous as it had been in previous years, and winter would be difficult, but Nerysiel was loathe to say it would go badly. There was no certainty, not yet. Who knew what the winter would bring? "We'll get by."

Her mother smiled, and she could see the crows-feet tip-toeing up around her eyes. Now she looked at her. "Always looking for the bright morning light, my girl." She sighed. "I'm sorry this is how our time together must be spent."

Wrapping up dressings for the injured was what she meant, but she didn't say it. The injured that they knew would come, when the snow fell, when the days were short. 

Perhaps without apparent cause, as Braxin, a fellow hunter had done the year before. It wasn't an animal or the Dead that had brought him. An accidental fall and an unfortunate piece of splintered wood to land on, and another stain was added to the kitchen floor. It was a simple enough fix. But there had been complications. Then, infection. Death hovered close for days until he slipped away from fever and blood poisoning. 

Her mother had tried to heal him with magic as he worsened, but the Charter was not strong enough without a stone. Nerysiel had seen many broken stones (and all had been given a large berth), but never one whole. No one had talked about finding one that was complete. The village had long accepted that there were none left to find. It was a minor concern, only meant for the handful that had the mark on their foreheads. Braxin's inevitable death was accepted.

And so Braxin went, to the Ninth Gate and beyond. There was no magic, no Dead, no grudge against him. Just an ill-placed piece of wood. A natural death.

But that didn't change that another member of the village had been spirited away. And all wondered if this would be the year for bandits, hungry and savage, or the year that the Dead deigned to move closer, without foolish passersby to prey upon, or for a beast of Free Magic to descend upon the forest.

Or, or, or. There were so many threats, so many unknowns, and dying of a natural death was so rare, it was easy to envy Braxin.

Nerysiel didn't. She had watched the pale sheen of his head, saw the poisoning of his blood, and had watched him die. It was a horrible way to go, just as with every other.

…if her nightmare was any indication, her own death would be by necromancer and a Hand. She would be eaten alive, her live-force fed upon. She would not go to Death, as Braxin had, but be bound into service.

It sounded plausible, and that troubled her. She would try, absolutely, to make sure it never occurred. There would be no Dead Hand, and there would be no fingers, and no blood. And if there was, she swore by the Charter she would take the necromancer with her. She was not some damsel, some whimpering, helpless child. She would do _that_ , at least.

But, she lived with dying every day. It was no especially fearful thing. It was. That was all.

"No," Nerysiel said at last. "All time together I treasure." Especially if it could be ripped away, just like that. A dream was a dream, but her father… that had been real. "This is the time we have, and I understand."

"You came to womanhood so fast. Too fast I think, and forced there…"

Nerysiel shook her head, exaggerated and vigorous. "It is our lot, mother. No one has it any different. I can't imagine it any other way."

"That it may, but more time idly spent, whiling away the hours…"

"Perhaps in summer, when there is more sun, days are full, and with less stew on the fire. Maybe then we can make up for those laments." 

Kestrael laughed, an odd, barking sound of someone not used to doing so. "Well! With that promise, I shall concede. To the spring." She tipped her smallest finger forward, careful not to lose the piled up thread, and waited. Nerysiel was familiar with the gesture, and returned it, tip meeting tip, and they shook on it. 

"To spring and what lies beyond," Nerysiel agreed. As their hands parted, the thread twisted together, but for once, Kestrael didn't seem to mind. "For now, the spools. Tomorrow, the patrol."

"And the hunt?"

"For four days after the two on patrol. I will try to avoid bear."

That was one thing they shared: an impassioned distaste for bear meat. 

But it all depended on the forest and what wandered near. With only four capable hunters left, it was harder to cover as much ground as they used to, and when the sun was low and the night common, it just wasn't wise to spread themselves too thinly. The woods south towards the opposing banks of Chasel was preferred, but sometimes they were forced to cross the Ratterlin, and that was no easy task. It was largely infrequent; they were fortunate the woods closest to them had not been exploited by others. It seemed most thought them mad to stay in such close proximity to forests plagued by Dead. No place was perfect, but that proved too much of an imperfection for the more sensible hunters. 

When Braxin was alive, it was easier to divide the hunt. Two plus two in two groups, and one that stayed behind. Having someone capable with arms was a decent deterrent for pillagers, and a necessity for the Dead being so close. Two of the hunter troupe could elect to stay behind, as needed. Now only one hunter ever stayed, and the other three spread out into the forest together. They would hunt independently, but would check in with each other regularly. The division itself was not wise, but truly, their choices were limited. 

The patrol was designated as the 'rest', for hunts could last weeks in rotation if pickings were thin, but it was hardly restful. For days Nerysiel would remain wide-eyed and alert, more-so than when she was out in the wilds, with responsibility resting so squarely on her shoulders and hers alone. She would have help from her neighbours, those that were fit, but then she felt supported only in company, not capability. And she often found herself alone at night as the watchwarden, or during the day, because others could not be expended from their own tasks. She could _'handle it'_ , and raise the alarm if necessary. When she actually slept, and the villagers took their turn, it didn't last for long, simply because they were so easily spooked.

She never saw her mother, though. There was always an ailment, a cough, a cold, a poultice to make and stitches to sew.

"Take some stew with you before you head out tomorrow."

Nerysiel made a face. "Mother, please." Oh, how she hated that strangely textured, never the same colour twice stew. It had the consistency of a poultice, and she suspected they held the same base. Her mother was not a varied cook.

"Something has to keep you strong, like this thread," Kestrael mused. Nerysiel couldn't help it, Kestrael's previous words flittering into her ears, like lost hummingbirds. She herself had said all things snapped. Maybe, in this instance, it would be her patience for stew.

"I will have some," Nerysiel relented. "And some only. No more than that. Here, let me finish."

Almost complete, Kestrael's hands fumbled over the final strands woven around her fingers. At the offer, her hands went still, and Nerysiel lightly pulled the weave apart, piece by piece, and tucked the natural end into the spool's core.

\- - - -

That night, bellies full and patrols looming, Nerysiel did not sleep. She was wired awake, lying on her back on her mattress, blankets upon blankets raised up around her like a nest. Above her wasn't the ceiling or sky, but the rickety woodwork and slats that held her mother's mattress, her mother suspended in the bed above. Nerysiel's legs were crossed over one another, one on the mattress, and she toyed with a loose bit of string on her bedshirt, teasing it gently.

When she was young, and it was warm, and in the makeshift houses where her bedroom had been separate, she had looked for holes in the ceiling above her bed whilst lying in it. Holes were bad things, but there always managed to be one that was missed. They sprung terrible leaks and her parents talked about patching them, but it was always delayed until later, and then a new house came and the problem went. 

It had only been in one house that there had been a hole in the roof over her bed, but even so, she looked. Nerysiel had liked it, as on clear nights, she could see the sky through that hole, and the stars.

She was thinking about the sky now. And thread, too. She wasn't sure why.

It could be the loose piece of shirt. She absently pulled it again, letting it go. It did not snap.

The idea compelled her. Sky went from place to place, and all the Old Kingdom would see the sky she did. Qyrre, Aunden. Even as far away as Estawel and Belisaere. A person she met in High Bridge could come from any of those places, but they would be connected, before they even met. By their kingdom, but by the sky.

And thread. Thread connected things.

It was something more than a tool to be used to stitch something back together again. To fix something. Whatever was to be fixed had to have been whole before it was broken.

It was puzzling. "Thread is more than it seems," she said aloud to herself.

Above her the snores abated to a whimper, abeg for compliancy. "Nerysiel, it's too late for philosophy. Go to sleep." Nerysiel looked up, to where she supposed her mother's head would be, and shook her head, smiling. Repeated words from so often in childhood when she remembered talking and talking and talking, full of ideas and theories and wonder. Eventually her parents went to bed to make sure she did the same.

Kestrael mumbled something else, like a 'yes' or a 'maybe you're right', but she was asleep again, if she had even woken up to start with.

Ah, well. Her mother indulged it, but her sensibilities were entirely different. Practicality over thoughtfulness, her mother. She let her own thoughts be.

Tired as she was, Nerysiel did not fall asleep. And it was not fear of the nightmare, that she would have it again, or a worry. It was something else. Just… _something_. Some sort of reason why she felt she must stay awake, in silent companionship with those others who did not dream but laid awake as well. 

And though she could not see the sky, she could imagine it. Here she was, thinking about it again. Sky and thread, near and far.

Though she did not know it, she was not the only one lying awake that night, long since tied together by threads unseen.


	8. Collision Course

It had been a long day.

Surprisingly, Terciel still felt… oddly chipper. 

The designated day of rest had not been a quiet one. A response to the message had been committed to paper, and returned in the boat in which it had been sent, flying the Abhorsen's colours. That, he and the Abhorsen had done together. Afterwards he practiced with his sword, stretched, read in the study, poured over maps, ate a hearty dinner alone – his aunt took hers in her rooms – and retired to bed not long into the evening.

Terciel had risen early at the house that morning: much earlier than the day previous, for there was not even a hint of the sun's rays sneaking in behind his curtains. He hadn't slept right on through the night – he kept waking up only to worry, only to fall back asleep again. Altogether, he had amounted about nine hours of sleep, which was good enough to classify him as well rested for at least that one day, given how that same sleep was also meant to count for catching up on weeks of next to nothing. 

Breakfast was a hurried, rushed affair, interspersed with the makings of packs where books and rations and instruments were shoved. Twice he passed his aunt in the hall, and twice she had a different piece of toast held between her teeth, soggy and forgotten. The second time, he was fairly certain she was sans a slipper, but he wasn't about to look too closely to in order to check.

Gethre donned and the both of them suited up with bell bandoleer and sword, they had finally clambered into the Paperwing, packs and all, as the first few specks of light flickered on the horizon.

Mogget had boarded the Paperwing less than willingly. Perhaps the thought had crossed Mogget's mind not to show up as instructed, but something had made him think better of it. It wasn't often he ventured out of the house with them, but whatever had passed between the dwarf and his aunt about where he ought to be included this… which made sense, given what was to happen and that Mogget would have the insight into who might be provoking the long awaited fall. He turned up at the Paperwing's alcove whilst the Sendings were occupied wrestling Terciel's pack into its respective compartment, yet made no sign to join his perceived 'owners'. All the while, he regarded the Paperwing with apparent disgust until the Abhorsen snapped her fingers to get his attention and pointed at the craft, an abundantly clear gesture.

Terciel found flying exhilarating. It allowed his troubles to fade away for as long as he or his aunt whistled their wind and they flew between the clouds, and this time had been no different. Mogget, however, hadn't enjoyed himself. Before climbing in, he shifted his form into a cat, but in-flight, he was more a brightly white thing of hissing and spitting and cursing as his freshly grown claws dug into Terciel's boot.

Mogget still looked disgusted now, and miserable. The Abhorsen had taken them as far as Qyrre and continued on her way, but Terciel and his reluctant companion had been forced to travel by slower means. Slower means that involved boats and travelling upon the river… and a significantly unhappier cat.

"Considering you spend most of your time on an island and fishing in streams, I thought you'd be more amenable," Terciel had commented after several hours of headway, with the Mogget cat staring at him like he hated every moment spent in his company.

"Not with no choice in the matter," Mogget complained. "This form isn't… appreciative… of taking to the air. Or to rivers, being wet, cold, unfed, rained on-"

"Why take it, then?"

Mogget made a disgusted noise, as if he thought Terciel was very, very stupid. "How else do you explain _me_?"

Terciel shook his head. Ten years was a long time to get used to insults and Mogget's aggressive demeanour. Having grown up with it, it hardly bothered him at the amount of scrutiny the sometimes man, sometimes travelling sized cat gave him. What Mogget thought of him was no mystery, but he didn't seem quite able to figure out Terciel's lack of natural Abhorsen hostility towards him.

Oh, Terciel knew what he was. That was not in question. 

"If all goes well, no explaining will be needed."

"I trust you have a plan beyond sailing upriver upon this rickety barge?"

The 'rickety barge' was in fact a trusted boat that Terciel had paid a pretty penny for. It had, so far, been fairly river-worthy, and some whistled wind filling the sail had helped their progress greatly. 

"Up to the Ratterlin's split at Chasel, then to High Bridge." If the Old Kingdom's heart was in Belisaere, that had to be its centre. "Each year, it has grown larger, and at a rather rapid rate. But my pursuit remains the same. If anything is to be heard of the state of things, of hints and rumours… that is, if any actions are to be taken in prelude to what will come in the capital, I can think of no other place it would be." 

He paused. "And my aunt insisted."

Not in as many words, but she had dropped enough hints. And he had a feeling that was why Mogget was truly here, to make sure that he did go.

Not for the first time in the past two days, Terciel wondered just what reminder Mogget had been serving. Had the Clayr seen something else he didn't know about?

The now-cat made no complaint for his plans, and neither did he comment on the Abhorsen's insistence. But he didn't make any sounds of approval, either. 

"I don't particularly care what you choose to do, or why. But if I had to rate that plan," he said scathingly, "it's not the _most_ stupid I've heard. But who I am to question my mistress' wisdom and that of her successor?" He sneered. He would, after all, question their motives as often as he liked. The miniature Saraneth around his neck did not deny him freedom of speech. "Wake me after we've passed the split."

The cat disappeared into the driest nook on the boat, hidden away from sight. Such commands were not unusual from Mogget. Terciel'd asked, out of curiosity, what need there was for his scornful demands, when he'd first came to live with his aunt and taken up his present mantle, and Mogget's response had been simple:

' _You're_ not the Abhorsen.'

Well. He rubbed his hands together, eager to be doing something. It had been a long day already, but he hoped to pass by Chasel within the hour and spend some time ashore before night fell. With some weather-working, Mogget might not get as much sleep as he had been hoping for.

\- - - -

It had been a long day.

Two times. Two times, Nerysiel had found herself running, out of breath, towards a scream and a shout and a call for help. 

Both times, they had been false alarms, her villagers in arms proving that they were less than ample for the task of watchperson. The first time, of all things, was a rabbit in the brush, which was more disappointing because the rabbit could have become someone's dinner and it would have given Nerysiel something to do instead of simply watching and waiting for something, anything, to happen. The second was another scare, but that one had been valid. A gathering of crows easily lived up to their collective noun of murder.

The village had only come under threat by crows once, but it was recent enough that everyone remembered the flesh-rotten birds. They had not attacked them, but their then neighbouring farm. The family had died, gored to death, except the youngest girl – not a girl anymore, but a woman – who now lived with them. She had the scars along her face to prove it, blind in one eye.

Still, the first call for help was before Nerysiel technically went onto watch, and she had lost an hour of sleep because of it. Add that to her thoughtful, sleepless night and being roused in a blur and a rush, and she felt tense, on edge. She hadn't had her morning stew, and nobody had brought her lunch, and she'd lost a rabbit.

Nerysiel was honestly feeling quite irritable.

The second time had meant she'd had to cross the village from her watch point to the closest house on the perimeter, where a grandmother was patching up clothes. Underclothes, at that moment. Still, a quick mention, and by the time she was back at her watch after scattering some crows (not shot, and not eaten. They didn't eat corvids anymore) and someone was sheepishly waiting for her with food.

The relay system was good for some things, like late lunch.

The meal had helped the hunger pangs, but not the jitters. She felt much too aware and heightened, losing her energy by being jumpy and overly cautious. It was like she was on her first watch and patrol, not one beyond counting. 

Briefly, she entertained the notion that this was how the villagers likely felt all the time, and felt a little better for it. But not by much.

"Relax," she chided herself as she walked in ever decreasing circles, too much energy to burn. And wasteful, as there were hours to go before she would be relieved and could rest. The sun had begun its slow and steady descent not too long ago, and in a couple of hours, she would need all her focus in the dark.

Nerysiel was tossing the spool of thread her mother had wrapped for her the day before into the air, swiping it clear as it fell, when she heard it.

At first she was certain she'd imagined it. She caught the thread, and waited, listening, for a sound. Voices in the distance in the village, the sound of saws, the clang of hot metal on a fire. Animals, around, but not to the front. 

That was when she realised what had perturbed her. In front, directly ahead, there was nothing to hear.

Her heart jolted. To the inexperienced, silence was a good thing. But here, hidden between trees and forest, close to the track that led to High Bridge, it was not. On two sides they were surrounded by branches of the Ratterlin, freshly flooded, and a natural deterrent regardless, but…

They were also fenced in. They were not the only things inside this protective cage of water, and those other things were what they wanted to avoid.

Nerysiel looked ahead of her, straining to see, to hear, willing the sight or sound of something, anything. But nothing happened. There was a chill, a caress of wind, some stirred leaves. The hint of fog. The forest should be teeming with life, even if it wasn't seen… unless something else had wandered in and life took to ground to hide.

As any sensible living thing would do when faced with the Dead.

Now, she worried. It was too far, it had been years, the Dead would not come so close, not so early. A few stray befuddled Hands in winter, perhaps, but not now; years in one place led to a pattern, unless that pattern was now changing. But they had the road, they had the river, the woods further to the city infested by Dead, and – horrible as it was to even think – those woods were far closer to High Bridge which held many more lives for the taking. 

Would it be time? Would they have to go, now, and not come back, with winter on their doorstep?

She could imagine the cold and shivering faces, and knew the lives that would be lost.

Not yet, she reminded herself. It was easy to jump to those conclusions. She needed solid proof. Proof that there was nothing to find, and that the pattern she knew was sound. And if there _was_ something to find, she would defeat it. She was not just a hunter; she was a defender. That her been her first role, and she would uphold it now.

In most cases, it was foolish to proceed without telling someone. But the chill might pass, which would be a good thing, if not for the fact chills rarely came before good things. The Dead could attack in her ignorance. If it was the Dead, she had to find out now. And if it wasn't the Dead, then… well, no harm done.

She only meant to look. She would be back before anyone knew the wiser.

With seconds to decide, she chose action.

Nerysiel stalked forward towards the gloom, embracing the cold air that reached out to her, head held high, dagger against her leg free, and charter-spelled arrow nocked in her bow, the steady weight in her hands grounding her. This forest, she knew. It would keep her.

But quiet and empty, the forest was unfamiliar. She knew where to go, feet finding the quietest route, missing the branches that would snap and give her away. She knew it, but it was different. Holding its breath as it waited for something to happen.

She exhaled, heart thudding as she went deeper still, snaking around trees she had walked past a thousand times on her way to the track to High Bridge. The chill hadn't left, and only seemed to be getting worse, thanks to the fog that was now weaving around her feet, playing tricks and trying to make her fall as she carefully trekked through it. Still, nothing, but it was agonisingly familiar. Not for the path, or the forest, or the lack of sound.

It was her nightmare made real, and she was walking right into it.

Nerysiel was steps away from the ridge where she always saw the Free Magic monster, the necromancer. 

It had been a long day, and if her foretelling dreams were right, it would not be getting any longer. She could go back, seek help. They could leave. They would be safe, and the nightmare would become a cautionary tale and not a tragedy.

It could have, if the necromancer were where he was supposed to be.

He was too early. He was before the ridge, knelt alongside a tree not ten paces from her, fingers pressed to the neck of a fresh corpse that was his luckless victim: a corpse he meant to raise as the Dead Hand that would wrap its hands around her neck and choke away her life, with a bite to seal the deal. 

He was not hooded, not shrouded in darkness, but she knew. She could see the bandoleer, the acrid Free Magic in the fog swirling in eddies around his frame. It was _him_.

Her heart thumped.

Real. 

Real. 

_Real_.

She raised her bow, clean and swift and true, and let the arrow fly free.

He would have no one else.

And he would not have her.


	9. Real

The arrow struck the necromancer with a sizzling crackle. Spell fought spell, but with a flash of brilliant gold, the arrow was set alight in a great plume of smoke… then vanished.

Nerysiel blanked. She had set it free with precision, practice wrought from years of dreaming of this very moment. She had not missed! It couldn't possibly be so! Spelled with cutting as well as fire, and even from behind, it should have pierced his heart!

Unless… it had struck an arrow ward. That explained the web of golden marks above him, invisible to the eye until a bolt put it to the test. Even with that protection, it was a test of strength of will and power. Occasionally bandits took to casting them as a precautionary measure, but those wards were prone to failing, as the intricacies of the Charter were beyond those men and women. That Charter intricacy was not quite in Nerysiel's reach, either, but she had punctured a great many arrow wards in her time by accident if not on purpose.

But not this ward. Of course not. It had not been expected, and her feebly prepared arrows would stand no chance against the magical might of a necromancer, or their Free Magic, unrestrained and unrestricted.

Precious, vital seconds had passed as she realised her failure - that the necromancer still lived, and that for it, her life was one second closer to being forfeit. Her hands, clumsy and unnerved and terrified, reached to her quiver to draw another arrow. A merely fletched piece of wood, but it was all she had. Several more arrows clattered to the ground, loud in the stillness of the woods.

Silence didn't matter anymore. The puff of smoke, the flame, the impact of the arrow against the ward would alert anyone or anything nearby, and it had indeed alerted the necromancer. In the moment she panicked and readied herself to fire another shot, the necromancer was standing, away from his downed quarry with new prey in mind. A hand was at his side, in a spell casting stance, and Nerysiel didn't need to know what his other hand held as he turned toward her and she fired again.

 _'Begone!'_ her mind yelled. _'Get away from here!'_

The arrow went wide, not even hitting the security of the ward this time. She reached immediately for the arrows splayed across the forest floor, two this time, and these shot true. But like that first arrow, they too exploded into flame and smoke. Her resistance was feeble, and he was not fazed in the slightest.

He would overcome her. He had a bell in his hands. She didn't know their names, but she knew what those bells could do. He would bind her and kill her. She would be matter for moulding in his practiced hands… but she could not run. She should. She should flee, but she would only give him ground, and… where would she go? To her village, so that he could kill and ensnare them, too? No one could save her. No one was coming. This was where he stand had to be.

If she took even one step, she knew her confidence would give. She felt weak and sick in the face of certain death, a death she had known for close to a decade. If she moved, she would collapse to her knees and his assault against her would be made easy. If she stayed, she would be slain and put to service. 

Charter call her a fool, but she wasn't going to make it any simpler for him that it already was.

And yet, though he had turned, and though arrows had skittered from his wards, the hand at the necromancer's side that was absently sketching marks… hesitated. And relaxed. Whatever magic he had aimed to call upon fell into the fog around him, separated and broken.

Nerysiel did not relax. That was a ruse, and lesser people, trusting and naïve, would fall for it. She would not be that woman, and she pulled her bow taught again. If he walked several steps closer – or even at a run, as long as he did not strafe – her aim would be enough. And if it wasn't, her dagger rubbed against her fog soaked breeches, a violent reminder. If her aim was not enough, it would have its moment of bloody glory, sunk deep into the nercromancer's chest.

Or her own, if it came to that. A last resort. If she could not flee from him here in this place, she would in the next. She would snatch herself away into Death before he could take her, a final gift to her village family, so she would not walk against them. He would be familiar with that place, and she was not, but she would have the want to go to escape, to go beyond the Gates, to pass through-

The necromancer hadn't approached. His spell casting stance might have relaxed, but he seemed strangely wary, and the ward between them glinted, showing he had not allowed it to drop. Which was not unwise, given that yet another arrow was pointed to his chest and his heart.

His eyes were… odd. They were not the dark, monstrous pits of evil flame that she remembered from her dreams; they were still dark, but also smooth and understanding, yet hardened by circumstance. Eyes that brimmed with knowledge. And he didn't look like a monster. Though his armour spared no expense, the rest of his appearance was hardly supernatural. His hair was mussed, for instance, like he had forgotten to comb it recently.

And though she had fired arrow after arrow in killing stroke – striking him from behind, even – he had not retaliated. He had done nothing to her. The bell was still, unsounded, held stationary between expert fingers. His face was sharp but seemly, and though she could identify him from the bells of his trade, he looked as human as she did. 

He looked alive.

In his eyes, as he stood looking back at her, she could see where his soul rested - and she felt her own resonate.

And then he had the nerve to speak.

"Please, wait-"

Whatever held her broke.

 _'Foolish!'_ she screamed inwardly to herself, drowning him out – even as her arrow's planned trajectory betrayed the path she subconsciously wanted to follow, as the arrowhead had fallen by fractions of a pace. No matter what he looked like, no matter what she felt, he was a necromancer! He was going to _kill her_!

"No!" she shouted, aloud this time, drowning him out. "I will not allow it!"

Forcibly, Nerysiel exerted her will and resumed her stance, though her hands shook, icy fear replacing the fiery pulse in her heart. Come closer, just one shot, just try to take her, Charter, let this all end, the knife, she had to get to her knife-

The necromancer deftly flipped the bell, and rang it.

The sound that filled the forest scratched behind Nerysiel's eyes, and made her skin crawl, and headache after headache sprung up along her forehead, and it boomed and boomed and boomed, and her breath was taken.

But she did not fire. She couldn't, not with the skeletal fingers tight around her windpipe. Bow and arrow fell and her consciousness almost went with it as the fingers pressed tighter than tight in a deadly caress. It was a miracle her neck had not snapped, even as she choked, last breath coming, fingers trying to rise to her face to pry those dead ones away, to respond, retaliate, but she couldn't quite manage it.

The Dead Hand. She had forgotten about the Dead Hand. It was always the Dead Hand that had killed her, and not the necromancer.

Years of warning, and faced with it, she would still die by a corpse's teeth buried deep in her neck and shoulder, sucking her life dry.

She was such a fool.

As her consciousness swam, she felt the Hand's grip lessen.

The bell. Though the sound of it had been unkind, that was where its effects on her had ended. The thing behind her had not taken her life. Not yet, because the bell had been directed at it, and not her.

But in doing so, the hands around her neck were clasped and frozen as the Hand succumbed to the bell's mandate and she would suffocate anyway. The necromancer knew it, and where there had been one bell there now was two, and the new sound that added to the booming note was one that reminded her of parties and celebration and home.

Happier things. Life. The promised spring she would never see again.

Nerysiel blacked out. But she wouldn't go to Death. Not yet. 

Still the bells rang, and the necromancer spoke, loud and commanding, and the forest heard it and the Dead within and close by trembled with the knowledge of who he was. His focus was on only one, but they knew.

"Let her go!" Terciel spat, words vicious and snarled. "Let her go, and walk into Death!"

The Hand, newly risen, tried to resist. Fresh into life, its only means of defiance was at the neck of the woman in which it grasped, a life it had been desperate to take, now turned hostage. It it was going back to Death, she would go with it. But the bone fingers clasped fiercely around the woman's neck faltered and rumbled, compelled by the urges of Saraneth to listen, and Kibeth to walk.

"Go into Death, and do not return!" 

The Hand struggled, garbled sounds coming from the maw of its mouth, and then it screamed and it was over.

The body, though mangled and unrecognisable as once being human, returned to the corpse it had previously been as the spirit within snapped back to Death.

The sound of the bells died as Terciel stilled them, but still they echoed on, further and distant until there was nothing but the memory of their combined song. Other Dead would hear it, and they would jerk, stumble, perhaps trip over the borders to Death in their confusion. Terciel ignored the receding notes, replacing the two bells back into his bandoleer.

With no grip to give, the constraint against the woman's throat had slackened, effectively letting go. Bone slid across flesh and the woman was released, and both bodies slumped to the ground. The woman had barely touched the dry earth when Terciel was at her side.

His senses told him otherwise – that she still lived – but he feared he had stalled too long. How she had not noticed the Hand… true, she didn't have the senses that give it away so obviously to him, but it had clearly stalked her for some time, and the sound, the smell…

Terciel's fingers found her neck. A pulse. Weak, but strong. Strangled and also bruised, but she lived.

"Thank the Charter," he whispered.

He didn't understand. He could not blame her for mistaking him as merely a necromancer, but had she not noticed the Charter, the golden light, of his arrow ward? She had the mark upon her brow. But he also knew that when he had turned to face his sudden assailant, before the Hand had taken its opportunity, that she had been as pale as a sheet - as pale as he always was, come to think of it. As though she had seen a ghost. 

Was that why she had sent arrow after arrow towards his heart in attempt to slay him?

"What did you see in me?" he asked, dumbfounded. Never had someone looked at him that way, with the revulsion of knowing their time had finally come. Nothing living, at least.

He felt incredibly humbled.

\- - - -

If this was Death, it hurt a great deal.

Small at first, the pain had blossomed into constellations. Every thought, every muscle, _everything_ hurt. Her lungs shuddered down much needed air, and she choked, coughing and spluttering and reaching for a bow she could not find, an arrow that would not miss-

Her eyes adjusted, her vision hazy. She was on the ground, in the woods, outside her village. Not dead, but alive. 

Barely. Heaving up her insides and retching with bile and leftover stew, but still alive.

Nerysiel's hands fluttered against her neck, fearful of what she'd find. She could feel the print of bones, but it was already fading, and it felt soothingly warm. Blood? No, not blood. It was Charter warmth. She tucked her chin against her body – that was difficult, and it almost made her choke again – but she could make out the glow of the comforting golden marks, merrily trekking over her shoulder bones, back and forth as they swam over and under her skin. She could hardly make out the individual marks, but they seemed familiar. Ones which her mother used in extreme cases, even though they often failed without the assistance from a Charter Stone, or another Charter mage…

The necromancer.

The recollection cleared the haze. Everything protested, but she sat up. She wanted to run, but the motion of sitting was all she could manage right now. Lightheaded and queasy, she almost fell back down again, and her hands pressed into the dirt at her side before she did, slumping forward.

There was no sign of the Hand that had tried to kill her. Not even tried; it almost had. But it was gone. The unlucky traveller's body the necromancer had been inspecting was gone too, though it was hard to see anything that was not right in front of her. Everything was a greyish brown colour, swirling, and it was difficult to focus, and she had almost died-

Charter, she had almost died. And even armed with prior warning, she had done nothing to prevent it. Only walked the path to where it would happen, and near given herself freely. She had not changed anything. She had not saved herself.

Nerysiel surprised herself with a sob, her swollen throat objecting as breath became difficult once more. 

As alone as she supposed herself to be, she wasn't. Terciel was near. He hadn't known exactly what to do, but he knew the marks that would help and ease the woman back to wakefulness. They did their work, easing the bruising, encouraging every breath she took, each one a victory, but he had found himself continually caught in looking at the body that had housed the Hand, and the body of the recent traveller. They had to be disposed of properly, ritually cleansed by fire, or else they could easily be inhabited again.

Death was incredibly thin here. That surprised him. Mauled by Dead but left intact, the traveller was not taken into the service of a necromancer's bent. The dead woman had been left to rot… at least until something wedged itself through the crack in the door without outward intervention. She had been dead for hours, and if something were to come, it would be soon, long since sensing a suitable vessel. It was likely Terciel's presence that had deterred any advance. But with the used vessel and the spirit now evicted – less attractive and crumbling, but serviceable to the desperate - the odds had become two to one. Some were brazen enough, needy enough, to take it. He did not want one body to be occupied, let alone another reoccupied.

Terciel had dragged the corpses as far from his unconscious charge as he dared, never averting his eyes from her for long. The cleansing flames had leapt up, charred bone to ash, and the Charter fire went out as immediately as it had came. As the flame dissolved, he saw the woman he had saved was no longer laying on the ground, but sitting, disorientated, and if she could see him now, there was no expression on her face for it.

Only confusion, fear… and something else he could not describe.

Alone, she sobbed. It was hardly a sound, but he recognised grief when he saw it.

Quick as he dared, not wanting to alarm her as before, Terciel went to her side, and knelt before the woman who had humbled him.

Even racked with nonexistent tears, Nerysiel knew. She felt his presence, even if she could not quite make him out; and then, there he was before her, quite clearly, a hand span away from her face. The necromancer, here after all, with those same soul seeking eyes that had resonated with hers.

She had tried so hard to kill him. She hadn't. 

She looked up, into his eyes. 

They were so familiar. Had she been dreaming about them, too?

"Who are you?" she croaked.

Terciel thought she might be afraid, but she did not sound it. Merely curious, seeking the knowledge of why she was here, why he had done as he did. It was the question that would lead to the heart of the matter, straightforward, sensible… the only one that really mattered.

"The Abhorsen-in-Waiting." 

Recognition crossed Nerysiel's face. The Abhorsen-in-Waiting, here, in this forest, where she had tried to kill him and he had merely waited at her side whilst she recovered from wounds inflicted by that which should not have been able to sneak up on her. Her hands trembled as a finger went to his forehead to affirm it. He spoke the truth. She might have gasped, had she not just recently been strangled.

Her hand retreated, but he did not return to the gesture. Perhaps he had verified her mark was unsullied already.

She pointed at the hollow of her throat. "Nerysiel."

"Terciel."

"Terciel," she breathed. Most would not dare say his name. "The Dead thing?"

"Banished. Burned."

Nerysiel nodded, closing her eyes tight. Terciel wondered if she was holding back tears, but it was not so. She was swallowing her pride, down to where it deserved to go.

"I'm sorry for trying to kill you."

She was not so proud that she could not admit when she was wrong.

Terciel's gaze didn't change, but something crossed his face. A flicker, a hurt: she couldn't say.

"No," he said gently, with a sigh. She had come at him like a person possessed, driven by a truth he could not begin to fathom. He had no right to know why, or what had led her here. But it _had_ led her here, and whatever she had expected, he had lived up to, and he had been something to fear.

And he did not blame her, for he was. He was Abhorsen, or would be.

But he was not arrogant, and neither was he unfeeling. He had caused her pain by not acting fast enough, and it was pain that had been in her eyes when he had first seen them, stricken and afraid.

For that he was to blame. 

"No," Terciel repeated. "No. I'm sorry you felt that you must."

It was forgiveness, and Nerysiel knew it. Now she did cry, a single tear escaping behind tightly closed eyes, rolling down her cheek.

She was alive, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting at her side. Neither were things she could scarcely believe.


	10. Advocate

Aided by his Charter spell, Nerysiel soon recovered enough to recollect where and what she had been doing prior to the Dead Hand's attack. As abruptly as she had forgotten it, wrapped up in the moment, she remembered. She jumped to her feet with a start and it was only Terciel's reflexes that had prevented her from going face down into the dirt as she struggled to realign herself with gravity. Not that it deterred her, as she was set to limp as speedily as possible back in the direction she had come, whether her body – or Terciel – wanted her to or not. The firm grip on her shoulder told her enough of what the Abhorsen-in-Waiting would prefer.

She had pulled away from him, heading in the direction of the village. Objectively, she was fine. Her physical injuries were already fading, the indents in her skin smoothing out - even her nightmare fuelled flushed markings from the previous morning were gone, persuaded to disappear. And with the repeated sudden realisation that she was still in fact alive, and had cheated her foreseen death… it all added to her need to get back to what she had been doing, her exuberance. 

Or, it would've. For the moment, certainly: but now that the skeletal fingers around her neck had happened in actuality, in the waking world… she felt their touch, constantly. Unwittingly her hands continued to trace her collar bone, a nervous twitch, and even as she battered them back down to her sides, one would always find its way back to her neck the moment her focus drifted elsewhere. 

Her psychological wounds would take more than just a Charter spell in order for them to disappear and be forgotten.

Nerysiel had also told Terciel not to follow her when it became apparent that that was what he intended. He owed her nothing; if anything, she owed him. Once for making an attempt on his life – an attempt that he hadn't pressed for answers for, hadn't asked her why, just accepted – and second, for the fact that he had then proceeded to save hers.

She told him as such, briefly, that he didn't owe her, explaining she was merely returning to the post she had left in a hurry and with the woods as they were, still silent and fog ridden, how imperative it was for her to return. How much time had already passed? The sun was not entirely set, but any delay was already too much.

But still he had followed, with a thoughtful frown, a flash of concern. He saw her watching and his features schooled themselves to neutral. His counterargument was simple, but effective: it was only right for him to accompany her back to safety, given the Dead's presence. That, she couldn't fault. In a way, she was glad for it.

Which was how Nerysiel found herself spending the passing of early evening to night with the Abhorsen-in-Waiting.

They talked as they walked, or tried to. Nerysiel's voice was still raspy, even with frequent drinks of water, but as the minutes passed, it was not quite so painful. Terciel was an easy conversationalist, even if the two of them quickly ran out of subject matter for the simpler things. Family went nowhere, and both of them knew they were skimping on the details… but they were equally considerate, and knew it was more sensitive not to ask. Lifestyle was non-comparative. Fighting had a little common ground, but given recent experience, they didn't linger on the subject long. He had asked to hear more about her hunting, but with her recovering throat, Nerysiel's replies were short and somewhat blunt. And yet, even with it, they did feed time into constellations, the sounds of the forest, the phases of the moon and what they meant… glimpses into the more thoughtful things. It felt as though the only topic that had not been passed between them was about the weather. 

But as the minutes added up to an hour and he still hadn't left her side – Nerysiel was long since back at her post, as silently agreed, and she'd spent a great deal of time sitting whilst he stood, which she normally wouldn't do but he was more than capable, and she did feel more recovered for it, and they'd both patrolled the edges of the village and found nothing amiss, and the quietness of the forest had abated just a little – she felt she had to ask.

"Terciel," she remarked, stopping him mid-sentence. He had been telling her about his own experience with archery, but she had only been politely nodding, focused on moulding her question. She stopped mid-stride, too, and he almost walked into her, backing up by a pace when she turned to face him. "What are you really doing here?"

"Ah," he acknowledged. He didn't seem ruffled by the abrupt change of topic, but he shuffled from one foot to the other. There was that frown again, the flash of concern, gone as fast as it had appeared. "Reasons."

His forced neutrality didn't suit him, she thought.

"Reasons," Nerysiel repeated, dubious.

"Reasons," he agreed. "It would be better if you didn't involve yourself more than you are, Nerysiel."

Nerysiel raised an eyebrow. To her, that was practically a dare, a piece of fish dangled before a cat's nose with the expectation that it would not want to take a bite. He was stalling – stalling until they could return to safer realms of conversation. "Tell me."

He shook his head, not unkindly. "I can't. Not much, if anything."

Nerysiel opened her mouth for a quick retort, but she forced herself to swallow it down, to consider. The Abhorsens were not just those who put the Dead back to rest. Yes, there were Dead here, as she had seen, as she knew, but for him to be here… it was the reason why the market had frozen on its feet the day before. An Abhorsen meant ill-tidings were upon them, nothing good - and that something much bigger than what she could see or fathom was about to happen.

Her posture relaxed. She understood what he was trying to do, but she was also tired of it. It was what her mother had tried to do the night before – protect her from the world. She was quite capable of facing it. She had faced her nightmare and lived, had she not? Not as she expected, and not without help, and not without a moment to mourn, but she had become stronger for it. Even if it had only been such a short span of time since it had happened. _Especially_ because it had been such a short amount of time. Her time was hers alone, and she would choose what to do with it. What would shielding her from further truths do?

But she owed him, and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting commanded respect - which she would have given, regardless. 

"Alright," she relented. She not about to quit though, and was prepared to counter. "But I am, as you say, already involved. With that in mind, what reasoning are you able to tell me?"

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but Terciel didn't allow it to spread. The knowledge he held was no burden for the people he was sworn to protect; it was not for those that need not know it, no matter the way in which she cleverly asked. A quarrel of bloodlines and the lack thereof was something he had inherited, been forced into. She was fortunate to not be part of it.

Or was it unfortunate, to be kept in the dark, to have no say, to only be a witness to the Kingdom falling apart?

That singular thought, if naught else, struck a chord.

"Very well." He stood to attention, conscious of proper posture when it came to serious newsgiving. His stance didn't change much; it was too well drilled into him to never relax enough for his hand not to be rested against the pommel of his sword.

But where to begin, if he was to share something? He wondered. 

"That… I have an ulterior motive," he settled with. It was only after he had said it that he realised how alarming those words could be. He followed the thread, hoping to clarify himself. "For remaining here, instead of back to the… whatever I was… pursuing."

Nerysiel's stare shifted to suspicious. He might command respect, and she was indebted, but she was not going to trust him entirely so quickly. Not enough to take such a statement of having _'an ulterior motive'_ well.

"And what is that?"

"Assistance," he said gently. 

Nerysiel searched his familiar eyes, enough of an exchange in itself; they seemed truthful. 

"You work alone?" she asked.

"Mostly," he nodded. "On some occasions I work alongside the Abhorsen, or with the aid of official forces, if we can find them. But we try not to involve civilians, if possible. Even capable ones." A smoothly placed compliment to what had been an uneasy proposition. She had to give him credit; he was as charismatic as she supposed any Abhorsen to be. "I have a companion with me now, but he is not quite… suited… for the assistance I require."

"And your companion? Where is he now?"

"Nearby," Terciel said shortly, deliberately evasive. 

He offered no more explanation to the mysterious figure, or to his plans.

"If I understand you correctly," Nerysiel mulled, as the silence began to stretch, "you're asking for my help?"

Terciel nodded. "Yours, or another of your village. What I found in the woods here troubles me, Nerysiel," he admitted. The corpse, the Hand, her? He didn't specify which, and she had no means to guess the likeliest of them. "I had hoped you would not be alone here at your post for as long as you have been, or for a scenario where I would not have to burden you… that I could simply ask for you to direct me to a leader, and your part in this severed. But you have asked, and so I shall admit it to you now.

"I came here to find a sign. A sign of trouble, planning, events in motion, or would it be something else entirely? I couldn't have said which until these woods caught my attention. Not just here, at your village, but High Bridge as well. My familiarity with this region is limited, for better or worse, but even I know there is something off. Wrong, perhaps."

He was watching her closely, to see how many steps he would take until she was frightened by what he had to say. Was she? She didn't feel frightened. Only contemplative, sifting through recent memories, trying to match what he was saying to a place that should have been none of those things. 

She couldn't say something was wrong with the way things were, but…

The worsening winters and lack of game? The Dead edging closer to the living than they ever had before? The undercurrent of fear as more lives were snatched in the High Bridge fortress? The more frequent raids by bandits and criminals? The aftertaste of Free Magic on the air? Spells slipping away from her mother's talented fingers?

The more she thought about it, the more there was. None of it was precisely wrong, but equally, none of it was precisely right. Not wrong, but off? Yes. Yes, she could agree with that.

Nerysiel stood a little straighter, decisive. "What do you need from us, Abhorsen-in-Waiting?"

If she were the gatekeeper, he had convinced her.

\- - - -

Nerysiel was reluctant to abandon her patrol yet again, but with what Terciel had said, she reasoned that it couldn't wait.

The village was not home to a command structure, but it responded quickly enough to crisis. This wasn't one as they knew it, but it was urgent - when those on patrol were not busy being spooked by rabbits and crows and wind, those in the village knew what it meant when they were called upon to act. And Nerysiel had never called upon them before.

Her patrolling line took her closest to the grandmother clothes-patcher, who had finished with the underclothes, and had, to her silent gratitude, started with breeches. Despite her apparent lacking of youth, the elderly woman leapt to her feed with surprising agility and squawked out a command to her grandchildren, the two youngest in the settlement, six and nine years of age respectively. They dashed off to retrieve who was wanted, and then she had ushered Nerysiel and Terciel into her house whilst _she_ resumed the unoccupied watch.

"Is this wise?" Terciel had asked, watching her stumble away. She was not a day shy of sixty years - a fine age - and she seemed active enough, but he had seen the Dead overpower able-bodied men and women in their prime and she was hardly that.

Then again – and though he would never admit it aloud for fear of what would happen to him – he knew plenty of older women with somewhat deceiving exteriors.

Nerysiel had merely shrugged. For as long as she could remember, the elderly Amrin was the first to react to a crisis and commit herself to it as needed.

What had been an empty space – with the nicest cushion for Terciel to sit on, which he had declined – was filling up. The amount of shouting and hubub that was now happening around them was extraordinary given the tiny amount of room they had to do it in. Nerysiel shook her head, pinching her nose against the threat of a returning headache. Hunting and its complimentary silence was more her forte, and with new company this kind of over familiarity was almost… embarrassing. Couldn't they organise themselves with hand gestures instead?

Terciel, on the other hand, was not used to it, and in its way, he found it rather charming.

The gathered villagers had formed a natural circle around the fire pit. The grandmother's husband was there, another older woman, a younger man, other people chatting in the background, and finally Kestrael, whom Terciel was able to immediately identify by the look she gave her daughter, the embrace that followed, and finally, the fussing that ensued. She also looked back and forth between her healed neck, and him, a great deal. There was a lot to be communicated with that look, and Terciel had looked away Kestrael and Nerysiel's swapped glances, recognising it as private.

"I had thought Amrin would have returned for this," Nerysiel whispered to him, between glances. Whatever look had crossed Kestrael's face, she was avoiding her eye. "Let someone replace her."

"I highly doubt that," interrupted the other older woman, hooting laughter. Private whispers, it seemed, meant nothing; Terciel could understand why the look system was much more efficient. "I've been friends with Amrin since we were babes in arms, and no one could replace her in anything!"

"Quiet, Carrlelle!" Amrin's husband interjected, beet red - Carrlelle merely shoved him jovially on the arm, unphased. There was history there that Terciel wasn't sure that he wanted to put together. Nerysiel seemed to know, shaking her head as the crowd jeered and chuckled.

Amrin's husband coughed, louder than before, then raised his hands and silence fell, the respect for him clear as the time for joking passed, and they crossed the threshold to the serious matters that had brought them there. Those that weren't supposed to be there – most of them, Terciel realised with surprise – left. Of the eleven that had managed to squeeze their way into the tiny room, only six of them remained in the now splintered circle. Amrin's grandchildren, who had until then been pestering their grandfather, had vanished too, but Terciel suspected they were still in the room somewhere given the hushed giggling, and his theory was hastily confirmed when Carrlelle got up, reached into a pile of mended clothes and dragged them both outside by the ears to wails and complaints.

"Well," said Amrin's husband, as Carlelle reseated herself. "Very good. Good. Now, Nerysiel, no one was quite clear in what you wanted, only that it was urgent and the…" he paused, giving Terciel the look he had come to expect. The look of awe, distance… and dread. "… Abhorsen was involved?"

"Abhorsen-in-Waiting," Terciel corrected. He thought about joking that his aunt couldn't make it, if only for the man to stop looking at him like that, but he decided not to. This village was a place of strong personalities and they would likely take him seriously, and time was of the essence.

That and he never would have taken it so… personally had it not been for the far, far different look Nerysiel had given him in the woods. Not that she had regarded him with anything but recognition and pleasantness since, in itself unprecedented. She didn't look at him as though he were a lofty height, unattainable; but as an equal. A person.

"Yes, yes," Carrlelle said dismissively, quite effectively ending that trail of thought. He got the feeling her blasé attitude was a staple: that she would give no stranger, not even an Abhorsen, special treatment. "Quite unprecedented. Most emergencies require us to run about! Not the kind of exercise I for one most enjoy, mind you-"

"Running about which we have indeed done," noted the younger man. He was the odd one out, and Terciel didn't know the reason for him staying. The man looked at no one, sat still, perfectly neat. Terciel realised with a jolt that he was blind.

"But we never get to sit and chat afterwards, neither!" Carrlelle finished, hooting again and shoving Kestrael in the arm this time. Kestrael scowled, but she didn't speak.

Amrin's husband coughed again, louder, desperately trying to bring the attention of those gathered back to why they were there. "Urgent!" he said shrilly. "Urgent!"

"Yes, it is," Nerysiel started, loud as she could, given her recent affliction. "Terciel?"

Called to attention, Terciel shared his search for a sign. That he had come here in the pursuit of that same sign, and had found traces of it in the woods just beyond their village, which was where he had encountered Nerysiel. He skipped over the story with the Hand and Nerysiel's almost taken life, but something in Kestrael's stare told him she knew what he had done and what had transpired between them, and he couldn't meet her cutting gaze for it.

"Nothing has been quite right for a while," Nerysiel added, when he had finished. "No one would want to admit it. They are such small things, only small changes to what we live with all the time."

"And, with the way they are, it is natural for them to worsen," Kestrael said, nodding.

"Yes," Nerysiel agreed. Though none of them had specified what those things were, Terciel could tell their thoughts had darkened to the same sorts of things that had struck Nerysiel, their faces heavy with the weight of consideration, and recognition. She had been the first to realise it, but they were the ones to grant the request that he had; and now, he knew what he wanted.

"I would not put this upon you if I had another choice," he bowed his head, respectfully, but his words seeped with apology, so all would know, even those who could not see. "If I had the choice, I would seek the Abhorsen's aid. The Clayr, the few guard that remain, or others that might assist... but we are few and far. By then, it would be too late. Whatever is happening is moving swiftly, much more than either myself or the Abhorsen thought. If I were to wait, whatever were to happen in High Bridge, and… after… would be in the past, not the future."

He didn't say what. He didn’t know if they had an inkling, that it was the regency he meant. All signs translated differently, depending on the knowledge you had. The prelude to the end could be elsewhere still, but something was happening in High Bridge, and he knew it. He felt it in his bones, his identity, what had been calling him to the city and the forest. There were so many Dead about, and the stench of Free Magic that he could pick up on the air, even from here.

Something was going to happen.

He could not command them. He should not even be involving them. But he felt he must.

"I need assistance," he said.

But he did not want just anyone to join him.

"I humbly request Nerysiel's assistance."

\- - - -

Nerysiel was not surprised.

She should have been. She should have been spitting angry that he had decided for her, that he had circled and cornered her with words; that he had asked to meet the villager's equivalent of leaders, in order to find someone willing to accompany him. _Yours, or another._ He had never demanded it be her until now… but she was not shocked that he had.

Hadn't that always been where this was leading?

He hadn't wanted to tell her, but she had asked. He knew her importance to her people. He had not whisked her away on his quest, nor asked her to make an impossible decision… even if, as she thought about it, she knew her decision was already made. She would go. If she could, she would go with him.

She owed him. More than that, it was the right thing to do.

But she couldn't.

And instead of anger, or remorse, or surprise, her words were soft and quiet, barely heard over the returning roar of talk over such a proposition.

"You know I can't do that."

As if he had in fact, asked. He had, in a way. She had pressed him; she believed him; and she had brought him here.

The roar had quietened, arguments fizzing out, leaving Nerysiel and Terciel at the centre of the circle's attention. They might not have heard what Nerysiel had said, but now they waited, wanting to know what he would say in return.

"Even capable as you are?"

That was his only argument; a private message that only she would understand. The others were left to wonder why he did not persuade, why he did not beg. But for Nerysiel there was his eyes – Charter curse those eyes – searching hers, and that was his silent plea.

"They need me!" Nerysiel spluttered, louder than she had intended. And it hurt, in more ways than she cared to admit. It was a splitting of herself, a want for more, that she had never indulged. Now it tapped at her window, and she dare not answer.

The gathered eyes looked to each other, a whispered undercurrent. If not sat in a circle, their heads would have pressed together.

Kestrael was the one to speak. "Nerysiel, my dear," she said softly, "you have done more than your share for us, as always."

"Mother-"

"No," Kestrael stopped her before any complaint could truly begin. "Go. We have each other. And as we have always done, we will last."


	11. Malice

Nerysiel was under the impression Terciel would wait until morning to leave. Any sensible, normal person would've done that.

Instead, not long after her decision had been made, he turned to her and stated matter-of-factly that they would be leaving within the hour.

Terciel was not a sensible person.

In fairness, he had gifted her time to gather her things, and that was following more time of his lost to whatever whimsy had drawn him to her and caused him to stay. He had lost an afternoon and most of a night, by her reckoning. So there was a kindness beneath his unrest, but were it not for the fact she had taken so much of his time already, she might have objected to leaving in the dark. She knew these woods better than he ever could, lived her entire life in them… but travelling by night was now necessary, even if it wasn't wise. So she didn't.

Most of Nerysiel's belongings were meagre and few, and the majority were already on her person. He didn't know that, even as she had returned to her home for the few extra things she might need or want, anything useful. Warmth, clothes, food. The other objects of value were firmly placed in her head; names, locations, favours. Always useful.

Nerysiel pulled out a cape for the warmth requirement, a cape that been patched many times, one she had slept under more times than counting. She shook it out like a flag, careful, and then tied it off in the loopholes on her jerkin. The jerkin had once been her father's, also restored and refitted. She was a patchwork woman of odds and ends and parts, not just in appearance. Nerysiel changed her shirt too, but left the breeches and the boots as they were. She took a spool, a needle, thread, a few squares of leather – never knew when her boots would start peeling apart – and a few dried cakes. But aside from that, there was not much for her to be doing. She hovered for as long as she dared before the apprehension and uneasiness had started to get to her, and at the faintest whisper of it, left to reconvene with Terciel.

No regrets. This was what she wanted. This was what was right.

Kestrael had seen her off into the woods with her… she was not quite sure what to call him. Not a master or teacher, for she was not a student or a servant; not a companion, either, that had odd implications; she did not know him well enough to call him a friend, and that had left assistant or accomplice, which were a little better than the first. 

Whatever he was, she went with him into the dark, lights from the village growing dimmer and dimmer as he made a beeline towards the Dead infested woods - Nerysiel knew her way around in the dark well enough to know her bearings - meaning to walk straight through them. 

She reminded herself she was here to give assistance and not to hinder progress, and steeled herself to enter without complaint.

Fortunately, they had encountered nothing, even if she continued to privately question his sanity over this decision. Not aloud, never aloud; she just wasn't keen for another encounter with the Dead so soon. Terciel kept a lively pace, not quite a walk, not quite a jog, but hurried. Not in fear of pursuit, as she might have done - what she could see of his face didn't indicate worry. But she wouldn't be surprised if he kept the pace not for the wrongness of entering the woods at such an hour, but because they had work to do, and with that in mind, she too would – well, might - have done the same.

Nerysiel yawned intermittently, tired and unable to fully stifle them, but he didn't relent, and nothing was said between them. It was pitch black now, no sight or sound or smell except decay, and the tips of Terciel's fingers were lit with faint marks for light, not daring to send them further away from his person. Nerysiel couldn't replicate it for herself; Charter magic of that subtlety was not a gift she possessed. Fire was, but that was the opposite of the stealth they required. Thankfully, the first thing she'd done before they'd set off was tie a slack rope around her wrist, and one around his, a several paces of length between them.

"Something hunters do if we travel together at night," she'd said, after he'd looked at her inquisitively as she'd tightened the rope around his hand. Then let go, because she still had hold of his wrist.

"A wise precaution."

So even if she couldn't see him very well, she could see the glow of his fingertips, and feel the tug on her wrist as they stepped in unison, which gave her some reassurance.

She was glad when the woods began to thin out and she could make out the gurgle in the distance that was the Ratterlin, and as she thought of the river, there it was. Here, with most of the water tossed against the bank in miniature waves, it was hardly ferocious, but mellow and calm. Still, she knew the river's looks were misleading; any fall into its serene waters could be fatal, thanks to the ever present current.

The river was not empty. Moored against the bank was a boat. It was also Terciel's boat, seemingly, as he hopped aboard from dirt to wood with a practiced gait and without a glance to the bubbling river below. 

His boat, moored right there, next to the Dead woods. Left unattended for Charter knew how many hours. The wood crossing had been bad enough, but this…. no. No, she had changed her mind. He was a madman, one that went great lengths to avoid sense. And here she was, following him. Never mind him; what did that say about her and her sensibilities?

Nerysiel was less graceful in boarding the boat, waiting for the swell to bring the vessel closer before she grabbed the railing and stepped across. Given that they were still connected by rope at the wrist, she almost fell in anyway, even with him waiting for her to join him.

"Untouched," he grinned. "Thank the Charter."

"Yes," Nerysiel said absently, with less enthusiasm. She swayed as she said it: her familiarity with boats was negligible, and the sensation of river under her feet instead of ground was one that still startled her. She didn't feel firmly planted; if she shot an arrow like this, she knew she would miss. Not good. "Shouldn't we… check? Look around? For anything that might have come aboard whilst you were gone?"

She, for one, didn't fancy the possibility of them getting mauled again. For all she knew about boats, the Dead could see them as handy tools… unlikely, but still possible. The boat's appearance was deceptive, with an array of places to hide, and… no, she was just unnerved by his audacity to moor up beside what she knew as Dead territory with an apparent lack of caring.

Terciel shrugged, affirming her feeling. He was in the process of untying the rope from her arm, and tugging his own hand free at the same time. He had given the boat a second's glance at best. "Why? Everything seems in order." 

Before he'd even finished speaking, and before she could formulate a response, another voice chimed in.

"No need. It's been frightfully dull here all day. Not even a single fish, not even as thanks. Terrible."

Half way up the mast, at the intersection where the furled sail flapped in the wind, was a pair of emerald green eyes. They rose, and a small pink tongue poked out between sharp teeth as a cat emerged from the gloom, a cat that sprang and landed on the deck with a soft thump. It padded towards her, as Nerysiel tried to come to terms with the cat's existence and the fact it could speak.

_'Coming to terms'_ meant drawing her bow in a flash, her other hand itching to take an arrow from her quiver. The rope, slack at her wrist, fell to the deck. Terciel, who had seen Nerysiel's movement and knew what it meant from personal experience, had put his hand on the bow, bracingly.

She wasn't fond of that restriction. Now the cat was down here with its words, she liked it even less than when it was up there and far away from her. Something about him was evil, something in the way his outline was not quite solid, that there was no shadow to match…

The cat merely chuckled – chuckled! – as she observed, then adjusted its path away from her, towards Terciel. 

Without the means to fire, Nerysiel settled with never taking her eyes off it, refusing to blink. She cocked her head and gestured - the question was for the man at her side, and not the cat. "What is that?"

Terciel said "he's a friend" at the same time as the cat drawled "someone who can speak for themselves".

A friend, she figured, meant not a threat. And also a who, not a what, even if she didn't verbally correct herself.

Nerysiel lowered the bow. The cat took this as an invitation to purr and wade around her ankles. The whole act stank of sarcasm, and she scowled.

"Alright, then," she said to the cat, resisting the urge to forcibly remove him from her boots with a swift kick. "Speak."

The cat swished its tail from side to side. It tutted, nonchalantly inspecting a paw. "Wherever did you find this one? It's quite rude."

Terciel, sensing an impending battle that he did not have the will or wakefulness to fight against, opted to intervene. 

"Enough, Mogget," he said, with authority. 

Mogget yawned, and without a word of complaint, slithered back across the deck to the stern, presumably to catch a fish or nap. That was about as good as he could hope for. Nerysiel lowered her bow fully, and even though she didn't return it to her back, that too was a good step forward for continued peace.

"Nerysiel, Mogget," he continued, opting for introductions to stave off the tenseness that had come aboard without permission: a tenseness that had only intensified with his intervention. Nerysiel regarded him with an unfathomable expression, glancing in the presumed area of Mogget, and gave a curt nod. "Mogget, Nerysiel," he said a little louder, in the direction of the stern.

"The Abhorsen-in-Waiting, picking up pets," was the answer from the shadows. "Whatever next?"

"Mogget." Terciel's voice was a warning. He was a mild individual, and it took a lot to incite his temper. Even now he didn't rise, but the change in his tone would be enough. Mogget was quite aware he was toeing the line, and was testing his present boundaries with Terciel in command instead of his aunt. Terciel was fairly lenient with him, and pleasant. But this, he would not stand, and nor would he let it continue; Mogget needn't take out his problems on a non-Abhorsen who had graciously agreed to assist him. 

That and he wasn't afraid to give the reminder of who was in charge if Mogget persisted.

"I'll shoot him," Nerysiel muttered through clenched teeth.

"He is as he is. Ignore him," Terciel replied, but not in defence of the cat. The ensuing silence was at least an acknowledgement of deference, but how long Mogget would keep it was another matter. In all, Nerysiel had taken him about as well as anyone could be expected to take Mogget. Softly, he added, "Can you wait until later to shoot him?"

"Maybe," Nerysiel frown quirked to a half-smile. "But I don't promise not to."

"I can hear you," Mogget called from inside the dark.

"Good," Terciel shouted back. "You're supposed to."

Nerysiel did smile then.

\- - - -

Travelling on the river was far faster than travelling by foot, even at pre-dawn. Terciel wanted to move on, and Nerysiel knew it was from encroaching fatigue. He trusted the boat would not be disturbed by the Dead with only Mogget as its inhabitant, but with the two of them, he didn't want to risk an uninvited audience.

Aside from her time unconscious, the last time Nerysiel had rested felt so long ago, an entire lifetime away. She had no idea how long it had been for him - but they were both clumsier than they intended themselves to be, hands reluctant to grip, mouths reluctant to move, minds reluctant to solve simple problems. 

Thankfully, the river was empty, aside from a few boats anchored in the deepest reaches of the Ratterlin, and they sailed past them without disturbance. It didn't take long at all to see High Bridge on the horizon and most importantly its docks - but they didn't moor up. Instead, Terciel dropped anchor in the middle of the river, far enough away that they would not catch the attention of the guard boat, and also far enough away for someone not to jump aboard and slit their throats.

Nerysiel wondered if he thought of this sort of thing all the time. It was so incredibly natural, each of his decisions balancing another, seeking the subtlest of countermeasures as if by instinct – and practice. He was always a step ahead, even of himself. She would be the same, if she were out hunting. But where she could leave that part of herself behind whenever she willed, Terciel could not forget, even when tired and wearied.

Though the Abhorsen were feared for what they did - and that fear brought a grudging respect - they were not often thanked. Their actions were for good, but with so much pain brought in their wake, necromancers out of reach to publically blame… Terciel understood. The Abhorsens had many enemies in many forms. He took the necessary precautions as naturally as breathing. Not all those in the Old Kingdom were as understanding as Nerysiel had turned out to be; as considerate.

Night was waning when they dropped anchor, and they took what little of it was left to rest, Mogget keeping watch. It didn't feel as if much time had passed when the sun began to rise, marching across the lowest ridges of the sky, and the boat jostled as waves and eddies stirred it, the first crafts taking to the river in the early morning to make a head start in crossing under High Bridge. 

Both occupants rubbed their eyes, yawning, bodies objecting that the rest was far from ample and that they needed more. But from experience, both knew that in a pinch, the rest would do. 

The last of the night could be spared to it, but no more.

A few sips of water, some food – Nerysiel refused to take anything Terciel offered her, choosing to be satisfied by the unappetising choice of bear jerky and dried cake – and they left the boat tied up at the dock. Terciel took his pack, his sword, and bandoleer, none of which had left his side, not even whilst sleeping, his right hand lightly touching the leather that protected the bells. Nerysiel hooked her cape to her jerkin, which she'd used as a blanket, and put on bow and quiver. 

Mogget licked his paws clean and used Nerysiel's shoulder as a springboard in order to perch inside Terciel's cloak, behind his neck. 

Now he was just playing her. A rookie mistake, showing her hand, her dislike for him; but she was not willing to let her own judgements of him go, not just yet. He was playing Terciel as well, just like any dangerous animal… creature… thing. Terciel might have to put up with him, but she did not. A forced dip in the river? Entertaining. Shooting him? It was less likely she'd get away with it, and something told her he would be difficult to hit… still, it remained an option.

Before departing the jetty, Nerysiel paused, looking back at Terciel. She might have been fooled at his identity by believing him to a nightmare made real, but she already knew High Bridge was attuned to what the Abhorsen's looked like. And even if they weren't, the bells would identify him as a necromancer, and that would be worse.

Fortunately, he was already in the process of pulling his own cape up over his head, the fabric drooping low over his eyes, and casting what she supposed was a glamour, for when she looked at the bells on his chest, she couldn't… quite focus on them. Her eyes slipped away, no matter how many times she tried.

He caught her pause and her look, and whispered, "Don't fret. I've melted away into a crowd many times before."

She wouldn't say he sounded pleased with himself, but he did look satisfied. She decided not to mention that the glint of his armour was hardly inconspicuous, and neither was the pallor of his skin, nor his raven ark hair, nor the fact he did not really look like a trader…

In all, that made her nervous for his wellbeing. She suspected that whatever he was looking for would not take too kindly to being found… and they wouldn't take kindly to her assisting him. The armour made sense when you thought about it, and there she was in hunting leathers. 

Well, not that it mattered. She could handle herself, as could he. He had to be more experienced in subterfuge than he seemed… or perhaps it was the shrewd confidence of one who put their life at risk every day. She'd just have to remain more wary than normal.

And then there was Mogget, the talking cat. If he stayed still, he could be a fur collar. But would he? Nerysiel frowned in Mogget's direction. As if reading her mind, the cat winked.

Getting into High Bridge was easy – there were hardly rules against it – and the guards regarded them as the travellers they wished to be portrayed as. Nerysiel recognised a few of their faces, but no one recognised her in return. 

It was only once they were inside that Nerysiel wasn't certain where to begin. She was glad her familiarity with High Bridge wasn't that of an occupant, or whatever they were to do would have been much more difficult – a person could learn to live with anything under their noses, and in turn accept it - but Terciel was still being frustratingly vague, which almost made her presence redundant. How was she to help without a clue as to what signs she should be seeking?

She peered at him. His eyes were darting from individual to individual under his hood, as though he was sensing, feeling, and listening.

The markets weren't really underway yet, but there were a few people around, a few early risers who were hauling carts into place on the main causeway. There were others, too, some unfortunates without a roof over their heads half-heartedly begging for coin, children milling about on errands or pushed outside by guardians so they would not be underfoot, and some fishermen who she had previously seen down at the docks, bringing up their catch. 

It was all shockingly normal.

They hovered at the edge of the steady stream of people. Terciel leant against the wall of a building as he watched. Nerysiel felt jumpy. She couldn't relax, and only allowed him a few minutes of silent observation before breaking into his reverie.

"Anything?"

His eyes didn't stop flitting about. "Not much. What do you make of it?"

"I don't know," she replied, hushed. She hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary… but then, she wasn't in a tranquil enough state to do so. If this was a forest, and they were stalking an animal, looking for signs of its comings and goings? No problem. People, who were multifaceted, capable of lies and deceit, and no clear signs to look for? She was at a loss.

But she was here to help. She knew this place, better than he did, and that was her faculty. Assistance.

Nerysiel leant against the wall alongside Terciel, trying to appear casual to any onlooker, and she didn't have to coax a yawn. She took another sip of water from the skin at her hip, not that she had to pretend to be thirsty, either. 

She tried again. "Nothing seems out of the sorts. It's very… normal."

"Does it seem forced?"

It was a curious question. "No," she said, shaking her head.

"I wonder," Terciel mused. He readjusted his hood, and in that movement, she could see the crinkle of his brow and the Charter mark upon it. He believed her, but he also didn't. 

Terciel gestured to the bridge and its winding alleys further into the fortress, away from the rising sun. "Walk with me. I don't want to tarry too long in one place."

It was a command, not a request, but she understood: this was how his nerves manifested.

She did. His gait was faster than she expected, but she kept up. 

Terciel continued. "Sorry." He didn't specify for what, but she didn't need an explanation. The entire change in his demeanour was the source; he was quite easy to read. Nerysiel touched his elbow, indicating for him to turn, and he nodded, taking to the labyrinthine alleyways and the steady downward descent into the stone fortress. He continued to talk as they walked. "Skin deep isn't where I expected to find anything. Playing pretend to hide the horrors that lie beneath the façade is commonplace. But it's difficult to concentrate on what's right in front of us when there is so much… beneath."

He let that sink in, and Nerysiel halted.

When there was so much beneath. Right now, they were _literally_ going beneath. What did lie beneath the sunlit bridge, the main thoroughfare? Was he being less literal? And did she really want these answers?

She knew the rumours, knew they were terrible. Did she really want to know?

Want or no, Nerysiel had to bite. 

She exhaled, bracing. "What lies beneath?"

"The Dead." 

To know was one thing. To hear him say it was another.

Knowledge was the most terrible of burdens. When you knew it, you either ignored it, became willingly blind to remain safe in ignorance despite the fear, as the people of High Bridge had long done… or, you kept digging, you looked fear in its face, and you found worse things. 

Now she knew the truth, irrevocable and undeniable. And if you survived that, you did something about it.

"How many?"

She couldn't see his expression, but Terciel could see hers, saw her think and adapt just as quickly. For an instant, he was filled with relief, relief that he had not frightened her away, that she was still with him.

And then he felt the Dead once more.

Terciel rolled the reply around on his tongue, reluctant to give it a vocal number, and whatever Nerysiel would envision as an impossible figure to face. "Dozens."

Nerysiel was slow to reply. "What do we do now? Will you face them?"

He wanted to.

Terciel was well attuned to the Charter; he had to be. But it was more than just Free Magic that had seeped into these streets - or the smell of rot, the latter of which he knew Nerysiel had the evidence for with her own nose. 

But the stench of Free Magic, she couldn't. The people of High Bridge were oblivious to it, too, either from long-term exposure or disconnection to a floundering Charter. Like the city, Nerysiel had never had to push her Charter Magic in any way, and when you didn't have to, it was likely you would not know Free Magic until it was practically upon you, acidic and choking, its more obvious signs. But Terciel saw the smaller ones, was trained to see them: and then there was his gifts as an Abhorsen, his sense of Death. That sense that was twitching almost constantly.

Suspended over water, but even so, they were here. There were so many Dead here, as many as the woods which had originally drawn him. It had not been this way last the Abhorsens had passed through High Bridge, but the thing about Death and the Dead was that their presence could be invoked in moments, days or hours or less. A few of them had likely been around much longer, but now, the Dead's population had swelled.

This place had seen many, many deaths in recent days, with more and more people taken to sustain such a force. But sustaining such a large amount of Dead for such a long period of time never worked, and Terciel knew that the Dead knew it. They only ever lurked in droves when there was a plan, an outsiders' influence… a member of the Greater Dead perhaps, or a necromancer, and the Dead were keen to do their bidding, competing with one another for the sweet succour of life.

Terciel experimentally reached for the boundary to Death, and it was there, an almost alarming presence. If he were a fresh-faced apprentice, he might have fallen across unwillingly. But he wasn't and he didn't, and he managed to pull away. 

There were more things in the river. Watching, waiting… a great many things. As many as was already in the city.

Was this also happening in Belisaere? Were an army waiting just across the border, ready to reap the living?

Terciel forced himself to think, to brush aside the brief inkling of involuntary panic. He could handle this. He just had to think what to do. Think as the Abhorsen would. 

Those that waited would need host bodies first. And all the Dead would need direction. There had to be necromancers, Free Magic creatures, and others besides that were involved… but who was he to say that it would be the Dead alone? Defeating them now would be the simplest thing, the path that led to stagnant resolution, and it would also leave the enemy free to pursue their goal with the Abhorsens believing them to be already defeated.

The Dead as distraction, potentially. The very idea sickened him.

Terciel swallowed. "Not yet." It pained him to say it. He needed the sign to point the way to the rest; dealing with the surface wound without dealing with the poison within would resolve nothing. "We have to find who or what is behind the… influx. I must ask for your aid once more."

Nerysiel nodded. He gestured again, that he wanted to keep moving, and together they went. They were slower, now, stopping and pausing as each path twisted this way or another, Terciel making a mental map based partly based on instinct and partly where it felt worse.

"There was the beginning of a market, above. Is there the, um, other kind?"

Nerysiel knew where his thoughts were going. "You didn't see it during its peak," she said with half a smile. "There are a few smugglers, but most of them trade freely." She added in a whisper, "And bandits and mercenaries sometimes meet here, in the less savoury alleys. It's less conspicuous than out in the open, alongside the village you plan to raid next."

Her eyes were dangerous, glowering. She was gladdened that he didn't press her for more.

"What about someone who gathers and sells information?"

"Something with more substance than a simple rumour? Unlikely…" she trailed off. There was no one really like that that she had encountered, except for that one time… "Unless…"

"You have an idea?"

"I believe I do," Nerysiel replied, with a brisk nod. It was small, potentially nothing, but it was something. "Let's go."

\- - - -

Though she'd insisted, multiple times, for him not to expect much from her lead, Terciel had been impressed in the way in which Nerysiel pursued it.

She went at it doggedly. She nurtured that small idea until it became a thundering roar, gaining momentum as they crossed one street to another, the two of them passed person to person.

It had been a simple thought. People didn't sell information in High Bridge per say, but some did make a living from what they overhead, and were trusted for what they knew. But it also wasn't something that High Bridge hung out at its figurative front door and eagerly invited those that passed by inside – you had to know where to look, and you only knew where to look by the rumours you knew and your need, which acted as its true gatekeeper.

Still, they had had to wander for a while before the spark took. 

Nerysiel knew the entity of what she was looking for, having been there once, with Braxin, a couple of winters previous – they were desperate for a trail to follow in their hunt, having come back empty handed too many times, and thus a different kind of trailing, of whisperings, had begun. A few hours later after their encounter with a particularly enigmatic individual, who had promised them hope, they had been approached out on the market by another member of this society with several optional leads. Any other time, she would have been dubious or reluctant at what the success of such a method would be. Wouldn't it have been better to spend their last coin on food, or give away their last item of worth for blankets, and not empty promises? He had promised _hope_ , not delivery or even success. But they had been hungry, and Braxin had a way with words, and they did have success. 

However these kinds of people didn't have a permanent place of residence, or a permanent figurehead, or even permanent members. They moved, changed, flowed, and she didn't even know if they even existed any more.

But they found them.

Or, they had found someone who had hushed them and pointed them away to a friend, who pointed them to someone else, who sent them to a washerwoman who had sighed and pointed them to the adjacent house, where they had waited inside until someone asked for money. The money was how they knew that they were getting somewhere.

Nerysiel's own pockets were empty; fortunately Terciel had some to give. 

It was after that they'd gone to several more in-betweens that they had finally ended up in a tavern, waiting in a dark secluded corner for someone who would listen to what they wanted and consider if they could indeed help. It was nearing midday if her guess was right, and even now the tavern was full to bursting, a good meeting ground where one could trust not to be overheard. The tavern itself was greasy and stained in just about every stain that could be imagined, and rodents scurried across the beams above, under floorboards, and in some cases, over tables in plain sight.

That someone they were waiting for turned out to be a barmaid. She was dressed lavishly – although there was also beer smeared down her apron. Though she potentially had more to give them, they'd both been evasive (even if in Nerysiel's case, that wasn't too difficult), and they were reluctant to tell the barmaid what they were seeking beyond the truth of what was happening in the city. 

The woman had plucked at her perfect eyebrows for several minutes of deliberation at their request until she summoned a child, one of many that Nerysiel had noticed had been milling about the bar. This child was the eldest of the bunch, but his age was impossible to guess – he could have been nine or fourteen and she would have no clue, as he was underfed, and his body had denied him a growth spurt but deemed him to be a suitable candidate for stubble regardless. His clothes were baggy and ill-fitting, and he had grubby hands and scabbed over knees just like the rest. Lastly, he had pilfered coin in his upturned palm, which he held out to the woman as an offering - but she told him to keep it, as payment for seeing to the two traveller's needs, and kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled, largely toothless, and had beckoned them to follow.

So they had, back out into the winding alleys of the fortress. It was impossible to say if this was their last transfer or if they would be another. Two steps behind, deeper and deeper, darker and darker. Soon even the shafts of guided light were not enough to brighten the stones underfoot, and it was left to the dull Charter marks on the walls to guide them, their glow ominous in the pressing gloom.

No matter how dark it became, Mogget's piercing eyes always remained visible. He hadn't spoken since they'd left the jetty, but his eyes had never closed, absorbing everything. Like a sponge, Nerysiel thought; an unwanted, unused sponge, reluctantly inherited. She had to wonder if his silence was an agreement with Terciel, or if he was doing it just to prove that he could. Nerysiel was more inclined to think that he was doing it for smugness' sake.

The boy was as silent as the cat, not uttering a single syllable. He didn't grunt, he didn't speak, and he led without gestures, expecting them to follow and keep up with only the occasional backward glance. The silence had been catching; both she and Terciel had only swapped the occasional glimpse in communication, filled with some sort of feeling, and different each time – sometimes reassurance, or wariness, or suspicion, and in his case, once a soft smile that gave her the strange sensation of her heart wanting to do a somersault in her chest, and that made it difficult to breathe.

After her near-death experience the day before, the latter chased away the feeling of the prior.

It could have been minutes or an hour – it was hard to say in the perpetual dimness – but when the boy finally, suddenly stopped, it actually hadn't been much time after all.

With the restriction on her vision, they seemed to be at the terminus of a street, surrounded by doors on all sides that led to who knows where. One of them was long since crushed beneath stone, subject to a cave in, a demonstration of the little maintenance these lower levels received. 

It was a good place for someone to want to meet to keep their identity a secret, far away from places well-trodden, but it was also an ideal place for herself and Terciel to have been led into a trap.

As the boy turned away to open the closest door, Nerysiel rolled her foot and leg ever so slightly – a casual movement to stave off cramp given the abrupt lack of momentum. But it had other uses. On her foot's bounce away from the stone, she flicked her dagger up between waiting fingers and slid it into its hiding place against her wrist, fingers concealing the hilt.

No one noticed, thanks to the dark, thanks to her cover. Mogget gave her a glance… and looked away, going back to his experience of being a non-talkative piece of fur, which suited her just fine.

The boy turned back and jerked his head. "In there," he said, his voice gravelly and close to dropping. Older than he looked, then; and surprising to hear, what with his prolonged silence. Both his listeners jumped, expertly concealed. "They'll be waiting."

Nerysiel went first, even as Terciel looked at her and opened his mouth to consult on whom should be going first. Taken aback, he hesitated: then quickly made up the lost ground as they both crossed the threshold to the space within.

The room was even darker than what had passed for street outside. Its edges, if it had any, were invisible, its true size a mystery. The only source of luminescence came from the ancient Charter marks clustered around a lamp in its centre, but the lamp itself was lit by oil. Even now, it burned low, almost out.

The room was also quite clearly empty.

Even before their eyes truly adjusted, they both knew with certainty that they had been tricked.

Everything happened very quickly.

The boy hurled the door shut with a loud clang, and the stone around it hissed with Free Magic as it sealed. 

No longer content to be inanimate, Mogget leapt from Terciel's shoulder; but the cat didn't help, vanishing into the pitch black with a hissing yowl. 

Terciel, despite his calm, was prepared thanks to years of misgivings, and had long suspected a trap. He turned as the door closed, revealing the cluster of Charter marks in his hand, drawn into a complex spell, ready to throw the entire thing in bombardment against the secured door.

What he hadn't expected was that the boy was not on the outside of the room, but _inside it._

As Terciel's hand rose, the boy struck with an until then concealed knife, with enough force to shatter both parties' bones. 

It didn't. The blade met gethre in an explosive display of metal and sparks, but as it slid from the plating, it caught Terciel's wrist. Catching the slit of exposed skin and perceiving opportunity, the boy yanked it beneath the interlocking plates with a sickening squelch. Terciel gasped in pain, struggling against the blade lodged in his forearm. Intent on further injury, the boy applied further pressure, refusing to give ground.

Terciel's bombardment spell fell to the ground, each mark splashing about in a pool of harmless sparks, interspersed with warm drops of blood.


	12. Stitches

Blinded by complete darkness and the fact Terciel was positioned behind her – Charter curse this child, she hadn't expected _him_ to be the one to attack! – Nerysiel was slower to react than she would have liked.

She struck out at nothing unarmed, willing herself to see something, to sense _anything_. Then she heard movement behind her, the scuffling of boots, the stilled gasp of pain, the boy's yells… and saw the blood splatter in the scant illumination from the dissolved Charter spell. Terciel was hurt. He had been hurt, following her lead. He was hurt. She had lead him here. He was hurt. She had taken point. And because of it—

He had been _hurt_.

By the time Terciel was cut and his spell was falling to the floor, Nerysiel's dagger was loose from her sleeve, and she flowed between the conflict. Instinct was what guided her, one instant far from the assault and the next in the heat of it, her own hand running up the underside of Terciel's locked arm. Her palm hit the hilt of the boy's blade, and she _shoved_ , hard.

As his grip was challenged, the boy lost his advantage. His hold on the dagger slackened, and that loss of control gave Nerysiel command. Ricocheting through his inexperienced limbs, her shove removed the dagger from where it was lodged - back the way it had came, up through hacked sinew and muscle, somehow avoiding artery or vein. 

It was not the prettiest of methods. But it had worked.

White hot pain splintered Terciel's vision, but it was pain he was unable to vocalise.

Nerysiel was not yet done. The dagger was free from the wound, a triumph, but she was only just getting started.

The loss of contact with Terciel's skin at his dagger's tip had changed something in the boy. He was the one to let out a scream, anguished and tortured – but whatever he might have said or done was lost by his arm lurching forward, leading him back into the fight, to ultimately return to hacking away the Abhorsen-in-Waiting's skin and bone, bit by bit.

Not that he would ever reach Terciel. Nerysiel had taken her gained ground and planted herself between the one sided duel, and had brought her dagger up to meet it. With the boy's concentration divided, it wasn't with force, but with desperation, that he struck, and the blow was easily deflected. Again and again he swung, and again and again Nerysiel diverted it, gaining further and further ground, until she could no longer hear Terciel's ragged breathing whilst he attempted to tend to his wounds.

Not that it changed anything. Even unable to hear him, she did not relent; if anything, she became more hostile, more protective. The boy might have trapped them in a room, and he might have tasted first blood, but they were far from defenceless and they would not lose this battle.

Cornered animals always fought back with teeth.

The boy was weakening, and she was only growing stronger with every parry. Soon enough his back met the door, and it was all he could do to make one last feeble attempt to stop Nerysiel's advance. He wasn't the stealthy, deliberate figure that had led them here, not anymore – he wasn't predator defeated by his cornered prey. His lunge was that of a frightened child. He was just a boy, not a butcher sent to carve them up piece by piece.

But Nerysiel was beyond that reasoning. She hooked his dagger with her own and disarmed him, in one fluid movement, sending the blade spinning off into the dark until it hit the unseen nearby wall. She smiled, a smile fuelled by memories of successful hunts - or was it failed ones, where the creatures had defended to their last, had protected kin and friends and more?

The blunt edge of her dagger met the boy's throat as he squirmed, trying to get away, hands scrabbling at the door for purchase, only to cry out as the Free Magic residue nibbled against his fingertips, his means of escape denied. 

Which, as he'd locked them in here, surely there was no way out, and he knew that. Still, he tried, but Nerysiel pushed further against the rumbling of his neck. Not enough to cut, but enough for him to quieten. 

"Don't," she breathed against his neck, dagger poised against his pulse. A second would be all his death required. The boy whimpered, fearing for his young life: and then he went still, defeated. Done.

"Now," Nerysiel whispered, "Give me a reason. Who are you working for? Who wants Terciel dead?"

The boy said nothing.

"Answer me," she said, warningly.

Still, the boy said nothing.

"Answer me!"

It was a yell. The boy quivered. Her heart hammered. The dagger pressed—

She was furious and she would make the kill. No one would ever be hurt on her watch again. No one.

Especially not Terciel.

She didn't have time to examine that feeling for what it was, what it might have been, or how to disassemble her fury – and neither was she given a chance to act on it, as a non-bloodied hand rested on her shoulder, a sharp intrusion to her stampeding, frenzied thoughts.

"Nerysiel," Terciel's voice was taught, fighting the pain riding along his other arm, his wrist. But it was full of a feeling she also could not describe. "Stop."

The reality dawned, of where they were, what she was doing. That they were trapped, and though injured, Terciel had not been killed. The boy whose life she was bent to take was so much more a boy than he ever had been before. She saw the fear in his face, the confusion that she couldn't place. He had – or some part of him had, now buried – wanted to take Terciel's life, but he didn't anymore. He only wanted to live.

And that, right now, was her decision. Her dagger. Her decision.

Mercy occurred to her. 

Mercy.

"Stop," Terciel repeated. "Please."

She stopped.

Nerysiel pulled back, tentative at first. She let go of her dagger as if it were a snake, or any terrifying thing unveiled for what it truly was, and it clattered to the floor at her feet. 

The boy made no movements of his own. He simply sank to his knees by the door, crumpling forward onto the stone floor, unconscious. She was barely able to make out his outline. 

He was breathing. He lived.

She looked at her hands. They were covered in patches of blood that wasn't hers.

And they shook.

She had feared—

She wasn't sure what she had feared. She had stopped the boy before he could do any lasting damage. But she had seen something else, entertained another possibility, and had almost killed him for it. A child. She had almost killed a child.

Not all children were innocent, but that was a wrongness she'd never be able to wash off if she'd followed through with that intention. 

And if Terciel hadn't asked her to stop, she would have.

Terciel—

She turned.

Over his head bobbed a tiny blob of light, just enough to illuminate the both of them by. The mark's strength was fleeting; already, it was been consumed by the pressing dark. Like any normal candle or lantern supplied by oil, soon it would inevitably go out, forever.

His hand was still on her shoulder, the clean one. The other, injured twice over, was at his chest, pressed tight over his heart; the blood clung to his armour, red and angry where it should have been silver and bright. Had he not tried to heal himself? He could dip in and out of the Charter at his choosing. Everything had happened so fast, but surely, in that minute or less, he would have attempted—

Terciel was looking straight into his eyes, knowing the angle of which to have hers inevitably meet his when her delays ran out. It was difficult not to meet them back once she noticed, and she didn't try. This time there was no resonance, no strange familiarity between them, but he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite figure out. Carefully guarded, laced with extra caution and its true meaning masked to her, it was nonetheless a very intense look. Any audience would have had to look away.

Satisfied or not by what he saw in her, Terciel took his hand away from her shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

"Me?" she was surprised. "What about you?"

He didn't answer. "The boy," he said, with effort – it was clear his hand was troubling him, as was trying to keep the single Charter symbol bobbing above his head shining – "Possessed. Doing the bidding of a, a sorcerer. Maybe Necromancer. Powerful Free Magic. Surprised it was kept concealed for, for so long until- is he-"

Terciel's hand was hit by spasm, wrist and mind hit by another round of pain. It was overwhelming. He clenched his fist tighter against his body, the only thing he was able to do.

Nerysiel caught a glimpse of his injury, and the still torn, bleeding flesh.

"No," Nerysiel said with alarm. He hadn't stopped the bleeding. She took his arm, gently as she could, and led him closer to the oil lamp and further away from the unconscious boy. He didn't object, but then again, he wasn't able to. The Charter speck flickered, barely able to bounce along after them. "Explanations, the boy and whatever else, they can wait. It is you we need to worry about. Are you able to use healing marks?"

"Yes," Terciel breathed, with no complaint about being steered forcibly away from duty. It was taking most of his effort not to black out from shock and blood loss. "But not like this. Not now. Too…" he tried a smile, some semblance of reassurance from the spreading panic reflecting back to him on Nerysiel's face, but it came out as a wince instead. "…too difficult."

Nerysiel's expression didn't change. She felt fear slither back into her body with a chill, a stark change to the blind hot fury moments before. 

"Terciel," she whispered. "I can't."

With so many broken Charter Stones, so many healers in demand that could do without them, there was only a handful of people she could think of that could. And all those people were far, far away from this stone cellar in the heart of the fortress, as they in turn were far, far away from their sight or sound.

Terciel was resilient. He could survive this. 

But she also knew what blood loss did to a person. She knew how infection crept about, the most efficient of silent killers. Perhaps she could get him to her mother; perhaps to someone else; perhaps an amputation if it hadn't spread too far. There were so many perhaps… but they all hung upon them getting out with enough time that the person they asked wouldn't grimly shake their head and say it was too late.

And his arm needed to stop bleeding first, and it wasn't, Charter curse it.

She wasn't sure if Terciel had heard her. His eyes were closed, and he was resting against the wall, breathing slowly in and out. Not unconscious, but slipping from one place to the next and finding he wasn't welcome in either.

"Nerysiel," he exhaled. Each word was a laboured effort. "I would not expect it of anyone. Enough rest, and then… renewed strength… I'll be able to. Please don't worry about…"

His words began to slur, his battle with wakefulness lost.

He could, should have, been thinking about how this was a sign, and one that he had made possible by his presence. Removing him from the picture, even temporarily, was a clever ploy. His aunt would be unprotected. Injured, he was of little use. Injured like this, he could not wield sword and bell. He could not wield two bells at once. He could barely keep himself conscious. 

He could die.

He did think those things, but the most pressing thought on his mind was an ache. A long forgotten ache, that Nerysiel would think this was her fault, and she would worry. That he would hurt her.

That hurt more than the pain in his arm.

Fireflies darted behind his closed eyes. He wondered if it was the high before the fall.

Distantly he heard Nerysiel's boots scuffle, and the sensation of his fist being pried apart as she leant closer, pulling his arm, palm upwards, towards herself. It slumped there, nestled between them, even as she held it tight and straight.

He didn't open his eyes, so he couldn't see, but held between her teeth was a needle, and in her free hand was thread, attached to her spool. Threading the eye was second nature, and she took the needle in her hands and shut out the image of parted skin away into a secluded part of her mind. The fireflies were actually small tufts of unburning Charter fire that Nerysiel had weaved into her hair, adding to the light on the wall. It wasn't much of a workspace, but it would have to do.

Likewise, her stitches were not the same calibre as her mother's - but they too would have to do.

"I might not be able to heal you," she said, with urgency, "but I can do this."

He didn't answer – perhaps truly unconscious now - but she wasn't seeking his permission.

Her needle hovered, but she stuck the end deep into the spool, because the wound was still weeping, wet and bloody, and first it needed to be cleaned. Her shirt was the only thing she could think of. She tore a piece from her shoulder, straight across, and no longer held up by anything on one side, it slid down beneath her jerkin to her chest. It was not perfect, hardly sterile, but it was something. She ripped it again. One for a tourniquet: one to swab.

Then she went to work. She could do nothing for the damage inside, and she tried not to think about it. Stitch by stitch, row by row, neat lines quickly soaking through, Nerysiel slowly stitched Terciel's arm back together.

She didn't know how long it took, how much thread she used. It became a fight of its own, swabbing, sewing, questioning. Would this help? Was it the right thing? If it was helpful, if it would enable him to retain enough blood, to regain enough strength, and then he could then heal it properly - and with that in mind it was worth every second, every minute. 

Gradually, Nerysiel reached the final incisions, much less shallow than the rest, for the blood had stopped pouring out between the thread. Her swabbing shirt was a bloody rag now, long since discarded, replaced by a piece from her other shoulder.

Terciel wasn't sure if he remembered the start of her stitching, or if he'd always had her fingers racing along his forearm. Lapsing in and out of consciousness, this time he had remained awake for a while, and the pain had subsided enough for him to open his eyes.

Everything was somewhat blurry, but also sharp, drawn into overbearing focus. The darkness loomed, but there was light, and that was comforting, but that also might have been his mounting fever. Or the pain talking… thinking… whatever he was doing. He didn't think he had spoken aloud.

He didn't look at his arm, but at Nerysiel instead, who was bent over it. It had taken him some time to figure out why fireflies shimmered in her hair, eventually coming to the realisation that they were only laced in Charter marks, burning bright with heat but not enough for them to consume. They lit her face perfectly. Her dark hair, the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose, the concentration as her eyes darted back and forth, unyielding from their task.

Like this, she was beautiful.

She had been beautiful before, of course. That in itself was not new. She was beautiful when fearless and ready to defend him and beautiful when he had seen her vulnerable and afraid. Beautiful inside and out. 

But like this, focused on trying to save him, he could make out every mark and nick on her face, her hands and fingers, her tongue against her lower lip, and she was incredibly beautiful. She took his breath away.

Or maybe that really was the pain. Maybe that thought was brought on by the pain alone.

But he didn't think so.

Perhaps he was falling in love with her. 

He couldn't allow that to happen. 

He wondered if she could care for him. 

The thoughts were his ball of string, chased and toyed with for no bigger reason except for that he could. Toyed with until he was sure, that what he felt became clear, impossible, and strongly denied.

He couldn't allow himself. Not again.

Maybe he passed out again, maybe he didn't, but the next sound he heard was the snap of the thread as Nerysiel cut it loose with her retrieved knife.

"There," she said. If she was exhausted by the precision or the demand of such a task, she did not show it. Her hands, like his, were now caked in dried blood, his blood.

"Better," he sighed. It wasn't; the pain was an itch he couldn't scratch, but it was made dull by the passage of time. But it was a kind, and appreciative, lie. She needn't have done this, even if he was grateful that she had. Not that he liked to think of a companion that would allow him to bleed and hope for the best, but if they'd had no option… no, better to think that she had and had done so. And it was easier to pretend he was better, with his blood staying inside his body, and not drenching clothes, hands, floor, and each other.

"Thank you," he added, placing his cleaner, non-injured hand on her shoulder once again.

She levelled him with another intense stare, and nodded, but not enough to break their line of sight.

"Think nothing of it," she said softly. "I'm only glad it was something I could… that it will help you to recover." She returned her knife back in its holster above her boot with only a quick glance, and her other hand still held his palm turned upwards. She looked down, thumbing the edges of the thread that were loose. "It'll have to be replaced at some point, if it holds. If you can't heal it before then."

Terciel nodded his agreement, which made him woozy. "I have bandages, in my pack," he mentioned, but he wasn't really thinking about bandages. He was thinking about his hand rested in hers, the feather light sensation of her fingers. When she was stitching him back together, it was just a sensation laid atop the pain, but alone? Now it was something else, something familiar, and it was also hard to break away from. Hadn't he already told himself not to allow this?

But he didn't care right now.

"I'll get them," Nerysiel replied, but she didn't move, still brushing her blood stained fingers over the loose bit of thread, obsessively trying to get it to stay in place without it bouncing away. Difficult, as there was nothing to hold it down. That, or as the truth actually was, she also wasn't thinking about the bandages. Just the soothing feeling of her hand in—

"Terciel…"

"Yes?" his reply was hurried and close, closer than she remembered.

She looked up. There was barely space between them. She could see the flush on his face, the fever across his forehead. The tenaciousness on her behalf was nothing compared to what his body was presently putting him through. A single slash, a twisted knife, and he would suffer; his thoughts were narrow, unsurprisingly. And right now they seemed to be focused solely on her and as he exhaled, she could see how pale he always was, ghostly, deathly. A hollowness about his cheeks and leeched of skin colour, all highlighted by the lights still laced into her hair.

She should be afraid.

She really, really wasn't.

She felt herself moving forward before she could stop it and then she breathed, _thought_ , even if all there was between them was a breath of air that she could feel and was tangible and-

"We have to—" 

They had to - Charter, why was it so difficult to be rational and to think? Stringing words together was almost impossible. 

She wrestled with it, trying to figure out what she needed or wanted to say, but that was all the moment needed to break. It passed, and Terciel pulled away. He wasn't delirious; he knew what he meant. She knew what he had intended, what she had subconsciously wanted to do, then stopped, almost. But no. No. No, not now. Not here.

"We have to figure out a way out of here," she managed in a rush, as if nothing had passed between them.

He was good at that pretend, even whilst feverish. "We're deep in the fortress interior. There's only one exit; the one the boy sealed. A seal of Free Magic. I doubt he will know how to open it again."

"What, we stay here until you're well enough to heal your arm and blast the door off its hinges?" She hoped not. She didn't really like 'wait and think positive thoughts' as their only singular option.

"It may come to that," he said, wryly.

"It may," she relented. "Do you… know how long it would take for you to recover enough, to do that? I've never been in the company of someone so connected to the Charter before this."

"A few hours, thanks to your work. Maybe a little longer. For now, we should get some rest, clean best we can… we're not short enough on water that it can't be spared. The boy…"

"I'll watch him," she offered. "If he hasn't woken yet…"

"He's been preyed on for quite some time," Terciel mused, feeling the aftertaste on the air that told him what he needed to know. "If he does wake, he'll be confused. But he's weak, tired… expendable."

"So, he won't be further trouble." Nerysiel reasoned. Terciel nodded in affirmation, but Nerysiel spoke again. "We'll figure it out. You rest. And I'll clean our - my hands. Mine. And, um, you, rest," she repeated, momentarily scattered as she thought about his hands and also about the curve of his mouth and—

She coughed, distracted, realigning her train of thought. "That is, you need it more than I do."


	13. Escape and Cats

It was more than a few hours that Terciel spent recovering, though neither of them had any way of knowing what the weather or time was like outside, whether it was nearing dusk, or if they'd long since moved past dusk and instead were moving closer to the dawn. 

Time was eternal and samely in the depths of High Bridge. The oil lantern was the only indication that time was indeed passing as it burned lower, and lower, and lower - eventually, it became only a small orange blot of light at the end of a withered wick. One had to wonder why it was lit to begin with, and who had left it there, and if they would come and light it again - but no one did. Perhaps it had burned for far longer than either of them could have fathomed possible.

In all the time that passed, the boy didn't wake up. 

Twice, Nerysiel got up to check on their would-be assailant. His pulse was still there, albeit distant. She wasn't a great source on the Charter or Free Magic, given that that was more Terciel's department in this venture, but from what little she knew and what she knew about healing practices from her mother… the more time that passed, the more she doubted Terciel had been entirely correct. Yes, the boy might have been controlled or possessed, but if he was expendable, wouldn't he be released easier than this?

It was more like… ailments of the mind, when people retreated into themselves; there was no telling how long it would take to pull them out, to bring them back to the real world. If the boy was under the thrall of a necromancer, perhaps it was the same, and his self was being kept out somehow. Or he was simply disconnected from his body after so much time not in control. 

But she was getting carried away with things she couldn't confirm. Nerysiel could only theorise elaborate, unlikely things; she longed for a book, to be able to read said complex book with ease. She wanted broader wisdom, and knowledge of this sort of thing that before now she would have skirted away from, not truly from fear, but because it would have been expected of her to do so. All her life asking questions, until one day, she had been left with no choice but to give up, barring herself entry from what she most wanted to pursue. Curiosity did not bode well when it led to… well, dungeons in a fortress where you could be locked away within them for possibly forever. Or wind up dead in them.

Terciel would probably have an answer as to what troubled the boy, but she didn't ask him. Whenever she left to check on the boy's breathing, she always returned to his side; there was plenty of wall to sit against, but she sat as close to him as possible without actually touching him. She felt unnerved when she wasn't there, and nervous when she was: she had too much time to think. She thought over it again and again, how it was an impossible conundrum, a fight she couldn't win. 

After cleaning their hands best they could in the semi-dark, Terciel had fallen asleep. He was very still, head tilted back against the wall as he inhaled, exhaled. His good hand rested over his injured arm and wrist, which she had finally bandaged. In all the hours that went by, she never saw any blood seeping through the cloth, which she was thankful for because it meant his sleep was restful and he would heal, and that she would not have to disturb him prematurely.

Eventually, Terciel came to, groggy and with too many aches and stiff joints to catalogue, accompanied by the dull throb that was his wrist, which he could easily source. He had slouched sideways in his sleep, which wasn't a common occurrence unless there was something else to lean against – the source of that was a tired Nerysiel, who was nodding off beside him into his good arm which felt particularly numb and sensitive, so it had likely been a while since she'd begun fighting off the urge to sleep.

Getting up off the ground again was not an easy task. Despite the rest, the stone floor was not a bed he would have chosen with another option, partly because it was so difficult to leave it. His left arm wasn't in the mood for giving him the required support to propel himself upwards to his feet, and neither was it able to cope with the exertion. It needed more time than they could afford to give. It needed to be _healed_ , but he had to prioritise. Just because the boy had failed did not mean his masters had. They could come looking, news passed along, or attempt to pass an instruction along, and find it not received…

First would be the door, getting out of here to someplace safe; then he could think about his arm. 

Still, even with that practicality and all that wiled time spent on resting, any Charter spell might not take straight away without a more decent break than the cold stone floor of a cellar, be it arm or door.

But Terciel managed, as always, with some careful help from Nerysiel. Once he was righted she scouted the dungeon for Mogget, whom hadn't returned, and there was no trace of him. Terciel and Nerysiel conversed little, only with gestures – a gesture to retrieve the boy, which Nerysiel did, and to hold him over her shoulder, which she also did, and a gesture for her to stand aside whilst Terciel began rebuilding his bombardment spell.

It was much, much harder to reach into the Charter than it had been last time; and the first time, he had also done it discreetly. The Charter was a present, always constant thing, but right now he felt more like a spectator to it rather than an active participant. The marks slipped away, one after another, unwilling to travel through to either of his palms, and sweat began to bead across his forehead with each attempt. And his armour certainly wasn't aiding in his focus. Every time the plate brushed against the base of his bandaged wound, he was yanked away, cemented firmly in the present with the Charter just out of reach.

Like standing up, it was an overcomplicated step-by-step, his progress steady but by no means fast. And just as Nerysiel's assistance had helped him stand, it was also her that helped him with this, and he managed. 

She was not a powerful Charter mage – many were not, these days, when outside of the bloodlines, and even within them, the strength of the Charter within the person was no guarantee – but she had resilience, resourcefulness, and much needed focus. When he reached for a mark she made up for what he lacked – even a lack of understanding to a mark's meaning did not hinder her. She grasped the mark and held it, intensified it, and the mark remained in his mind, disallowed from spiriting itself away. When it was woven into the rest of his spell, he consistently discovered that she had gathered similar marks by instinct, marks that he hadn't initially called for. Marks of fire and ruin and destruction… from what little he had seen, these marks seemed to be her forte, her strength. She was not experienced in the Charter, but with the right books, the right lessons, she could become much stronger of a mage than she was.

Thoughts for another time. 

Together, they succeeded in the spell's making. With Nerysiel's hand rested over his good one, he lifted that hand towards their exit and together, they shunted the bonded spell in the direction of the sealed door.

The essence of the spell was familiar enough, and he knew what to expect - the sort of affect the Charter spell usually had on its surroundings, discounting the always minor differences when built from scratch and feeling. Typically, the walls around the door would have crumbled as the metal was pried loose from its stone bearings and from the seal made by Free Magic that had been placed upon it, and with nothing to hold it in place, the door would give.

That was how it should have been. This time was different. Instead of groaning with forced passage, the metal of the door quivered, and began to shrink and expand and crunch, as if invisible hands were making it pliable: as if it were nothing more than wood. 

One moment it was a door in a frame - the next, it was half its original size, crushed, its new durability exploited. The door wailed in protest as it continued to contract, turning red and orange, a ball of metalworked flame. Then it flew clean off its hinges, reminiscent of the spell's initial shunt, and was propelled into the corridor behind, crashing to the floor with a bang and kicking up reams of long forgotten dust and scattering dormant Charter marks across the walls in the process.

Judging by the choking that came as the dust began to clear, the door had nearly succeeded in making a pancake out of an albino, dwarf-sized man that was standing inches away from where the metal sheet had landed. The albino's large hands were lifting up the sorry excuse for what had been a door, now barely bigger than him - and he placed it with almost apologetic delicateness against the wall adjacent to him, before casting an accusatory glare towards Terciel and Nerysiel both.

Terciel knew his identity, but Nerysiel had an inkling even before the dwarf opened his mouth. It was Mogget.

"Well," Mogget said, his eyes slits, "If that's how it is, I'm glad I didn't get here five minutes earlier. Perhaps I should go, considering you're both so happy to see me?"

He seemed hopeful. Terciel shook his head. "Come now, Mogget. It didn't hit you."

"And as I recall, you fled a fight, leaving us to resolve what came of it," Nerysiel said, jerking her thumb towards the boy held aloft over her shoulder. "Not to mention leaving us to deal with him by ourselves."

"Just because I'm the Abhorsen's servant doesn't mean I have to fight his fights for him," Mogget plodded forward, and wrinkled his nose, sniffing. His nose led him to Terciel's forearm. "Smells nasty. How deep?"

"You'll find out once we're out of this labyrinth," Nerysiel levelled; she doubted Mogget truly cared about Terciel's current condition. Enough to ask questions due to piqued curiosity perhaps, but not enough to actually attend to his master's recovery needs. "When Terciel has recovered enough to heal himself."

Mogget didn't answer. His eyes, strangely feline, flickered back to Terciel. "You picked up someone who isn't attuned to the Charter? She truly is a—"

"I _am_ a Charter Mage, thank you," Nerysiel huffed before Terciel could reply. She tapped the mark twice on her forehead, and it briefly flared, a memory of the fire that came to her so easily. "Not to heal with, but I know enough about injuries in order to apply stitches."

"After skinning a poor defenceless creature, you stitch it back together?" Mogget blinked, innocently. Though it was hard to be innocent with his current appearance; he could make any small child cry just by looking at them. "How times have changed. Stitching, truly the opposite of skinning."

"No, it's not!" Nerysiel didn't think she could miss his cat form, but now he was a man and he was leering and sniggering, she did. "I learned from Kestrael, my mother, and she's the best surgeon High Bridge and the villages beyond have to offer!"

"Enough!" Terciel interrupted, feeling exhausted by merely listening to them. He didn't have the luxury of sidelining this fight, and they had to put distance from this dungeon now they were out of it - and he could already feel his strength waning. Soon enough, he would need another break, and if he was going to make progress before then, he didn't have the will to listen to Mogget's prodding and probing. "Mogget, carry the boy."

"Yes, _sir_ ," Mogget purred. Coming from a not-quite-man, the effect was somewhat disturbing, but that was clearly what he was going for. Scowling, Nerysiel narrowly avoided dropping the child in Mogget's out held arms rather than passing him. The weight did nothing to bother the albino, even if the boy was far taller than him already, and he turned back to Terciel, smiling extra sweetly. "Anything else to make your life easier?"

"Going back to a quiet nonexistence would be nice," Nerysiel huffed, taking her place beside Terciel with her arms crossed.

"No," Terciel replied, tiredly. Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss the stone floor as a suitable bed.

Terciel straightened as he took his command, though his posture was far from stellar. He looked across to the woman at his side. "Lead the way, Mogget. Nerysiel…?" he ventured. She nodded, moving forward. 

Even without asking, she unfolded her arms and held one free, nudging against his elbow: which he linked with, gently and deliberately. It was something they had agreed before, because Terciel still felt uneven and dizzy on his feet, and they needed to put distance between here and there, and see to the boy if they could… but even agreed, even planed, it was a natural movement.

As though it were right. As though it were something that they were meant to do.

Mogget saw. His eyes twinkled. He looked away as Nerysiel caught him observing, smirking to himself as if he was eager to comment - but oh, he would be keeping it for later, to use against them as it suited him, and both of them knew it.

The odd group began their shuffle upwards back to civilisation. They had barely started, just out of the dead end to the dungeon and several turns, their progress nail-bitingly slow. Nerysiel was aware that she could have walked three times the distance if they were both fit and well, and the restlessness reared its ugly head again. The whys and hows and whos… particularly, why events in the cellar had unfolded as they did.

All the while, Nerysiel kept an eye on Mogget's back, as a thought gnawed at her that wouldn't leave her be. She didn't want to start another fight, but…

"Mogget," Nerysiel voiced, carefully. She didn't look at Terciel, but she could imagine the preemptive wince as they clawed cattishly at each other's throats yet again. "Just where did you go whilst we were trapped?"

"I got out," Mogget said plainly, without further explanation to how he did so. They'd both checked the walls of the octagonal room, and there had only ever been the singular sealed door. "As he puts it—" he didn't have to identify the he or even indicate, as she knew he meant Terciel— "there was a sign. I sensed something as the boy followed through his orders. It's gone now. Ebbing away, like the possibility of—"

"Mogget," Terciel interrupted. He sounded alarmed, extremely cautious, and it was in his grip, too; Nerysiel felt it on her arm as he faltered. "Look at me, please."

Mogget did. It was a very reluctant turn, and he tried to shy away from Terciel's line of sight, but he couldn't follow through, compelled to answer and respond by the miniature Saraneth around his middle. Or it could have been Terciel's politeness, the please, a word he so often didn't hear. It wasn't clear.

Nerysiel was beginning to understand that you had to be deliberate with Mogget in what you asked, what you said - or else he would keep it to himself, and mention it only when it suited him. He had taken advantage of their squabble, and of Terciel's weariness, and sidestepped an entire conversation about where he had been. It was only in his rambling about something ebbing away, about a sign, that had drawn them in and given him away, something he had clearly said in accident; they might have passed off boredom as viable explanation otherwise, and not inquired any further. However, it was now clear that Mogget knew something, and prizing it out of him would be like removing a particularly stubborn splinter.

"Mogget," Terciel repeated, more stern than before. "What did you sense? What did you find?"

"S-Something," the albino stuttered across the words in his reluctance, as if something wanted to gag him, but his forced servitude won out. "B-Bad."

" _What_ ," Terciel repeated, denying Mogget any and all wriggle room.

Mogget started shaking his head, distressed: but not by the words, his own or otherwise. "The Abhorsens and the Clayr both wanted a prelude. You're getting one."

"What does that mean?" Nerysiel asked, frustrated. It made no sense, if Terciel was only looking for signs of something bad. Was something happening? Had it already started? Speaking of whys, was this 'prelude' why Terciel had been looking for signs in the first place?

The frustration built, laced with irritation at still being clueless and kept in the dark. She should have asked, but now was not the time to ask. She looked between the two of them, the private world of secrets and bloodlines and purpose, where she was denied entry no matter how much she rattled the gates. "What is he saying? Terciel, what does he mean!?" 

Her voice was a shout, a see-saw. Terciel flinched, but he didn't look at her, and his grip still didn't slacken. He felt so distant, building wall upon wall, with the continued insistence of keeping her involvement as limited as he could. It was Mogget who looked at her instead, with a mixed expression in his eyes, and his mouth popped open, then closed, as if to say something but thinking better of it.

Or not. "It means," Mogget said, tasting each word as he spoke, "An end." Then he looked back to Terciel, away from Nerysiel.

"What did you find?" Terciel repeated, with more urgency.

Mogget didn't dance around anymore. He looked between them once again, and addressed them both. "A test, set by a necromancer. A Free Magic creature. I recognised his presence." Mogget paused, but he chose not to elaborate. Not here and not now and not yet. That want was granted to him. "But he isn't here. Only thralls and Dead, Dead to march and spread once Belisaere is liberated to his liking. 

"But to make sure no one gets out - or in, I suppose - he left chaos behind."

Now, he looked upon Nerysiel alone.

It was pity, but it was also power.

Whatever he had to say, his words would be a curse. She knew it. She had to find a reason not to listen. She wanted to scream, block them out, run. But she was frozen. And no matter what she did, they would come and find her.

"He set a fire."


	14. Gone

Nerysiel stopped breathing.

The forest, her village, her mother-

_'He set a fire.'_

Everything was burning.

Terciel was saying something. 

His words were empty. She couldn't hear them.

She couldn't think.

She had to go.

She had to run.

She forgot about Mogget, about the boy. She forgot about Terciel and his injury. How she had fought for him to survive and closed his wounds. How much she had learned. She forgot about every plan that they had made, everything that had passed between them; everything.

It paled in comparison to what she was losing.

She should never have left. She should have stayed with her home to defend it.

How could she, even for a moment, have entertained the idea of exploring what was happening between them, whimsically following her feelings, whilst everyone she loved faced certain Death? 

Stupid.

She had lived in spite of her precognitive dreams, and this was how it was to be? She was going to lose those she cared for, anyway?

Stupid, stupid!

Nerysiel didn't remember leaving her ramshackle party behind, and even when she did realise they weren't there by her side anymore, not even a single thought could be spared for them.

There were no thoughts to spare, beyond the desire to move, the continued placing of one foot in front of the other. She barely registered her feet pounding stone, nor every turn she took, or even how she knew which way to go, crawling from beneath the packed earth up to the sunlight above. It was instinct. A drive to survive; or to make sure that the others she wanted to would.

Every part of her body cried out when she reached the surface, starved for sun and warmth and _life_ , but it was no deterrent. It fuelled her with a speed she'd never known, and even as every tired muscle made its singular protest and she wanted to stop, she accelerated instead. She weaved around buildings, people, adults, children, hopes, dreams and despair, the sun burning bright in the sky… and all around her, wherever she looked.

It wasn't the sun. It was fire.

The bridge and its fortress, made largely of stone, had waylaid the fire's advance. But still it flickered up and down ropes, leaped from cart to cart, took advantage of clothes and people and animals alike. Individuals who retained sense ran between the chaos, with buckets of water or Charter spell if they could manage it, and with that activeness, the fire didn't seem much of a danger: it was nothing worse than a hot summer's day and an unfortunate mirror catching something alight.

But as Nerysiel progressed it became clear that it was in fact far worse. People were crying and despairing not for what was in the city, but what was out of it.

The sky was dark, but not naturally: the darkness came from a blanket of black smoke that had risen to the east of High Bridge and was advancing, the source of much of the screams and shouts. It was hundreds of feet tall and just as wide, blocking out any view of the sky, and hiding away the true time of day. It was impossible to determine even by looking at the skyline to the west, its colour sucked clean and replaced by hues of grey by the advancing cloud. Everything was grey or orange, or somewhere between.

Within the conquering darkness was the sun, but that itself was the fire, a great fire, lit by unnatural means; a fire that swallowed everything in its path, wood and stone and flesh and water and earth and bone, and anything else unfortunate to bear the brunt of its anger. It was a fire made for one purpose - to destroy.

Even though the underneath of the cloud of smog and flame was invisible to any onlooker, the fire had devoured without care or indifference; just as many Dead as those living had been embraced by its flames. Only the Ratterlin, its width and depth and speed combined, had stalled it from crossing to other places beyond its present plain of ruin. But whilst the fire was wild and went where it fancied, it was purposed, and focused by whim of its caster. It had a goal and it was happy to fulfil it, and it had the fuel to do it. Only when its current destruction was complete would it challenge its maker's authority and move to take the Ratterlin and beyond, going north as well as south.

But it did, and was allowed to, challenge the western entry of High Bridge, as Nerysiel was currently witness to.

Getting out of the city was a challenge, what with the amount of individuals swarming through the gates, guards powerless to stop them. There were the homeless, now refugees; travellers who were lucky; fleeing animals wild as well as tamed; women; men; children; any and all life, and even some Dead, if the hacked pieces of corpse at the wayside were any indication. Here and there, a leg still twitched, and some corpses had gone down without a fight and had been left in the gutter, the spirit within taking the plunge back into Death, a preferred end over ash and ruin. Even a majority of the guards out on the entryway were abandoning their posts faced with such a natural monstrosity that they could do nothing to stop.

The guards who held their wits, however, were closing the gates on the entryway as Nerysiel wrestled towards them. The gates were thick wedges of stone with a sluice metal grill to be lowered over the top; the metal would not stop the blaze, but the stone might as High Bridge _was_ a fortress, but only if they could get the stone doors closed. Already the fire had been brought in by those fleeing for their lives and, propelled by magic, it longed to spread.

As the last throngs of people arrived – the last living – they fought the last few paces to be allowed through the narrow gap of stone, narrowly escaping pursuing tongues of flame that crawled relentlessly around the river banks, content to wait until the rest of its bulk caught up with what had gone ahead. 

The fire allowed them to escape. It let them live with the knowledge that it would be their demise, regardless of where they ran to. It was a twisted kind of sentience.

Nerysiel met those fleeing for safety head on. The open part of the gate was now wide enough for two people to past abreast, but was still closing rapidly. She squeezed through that same gap in the door, vaulting over debris and narrowly avoiding a collision as well as shoving: because if this woman chose to disregard her own life, her wellbeing was willingly forfeit and it was none of their business, and she could burn if she wished. 

Nerysiel, wriggling the last pace or two as quick as she could at the possibility of being crushed by a gap scarcely big enough for her to shimmy sideways along, belatedly realised she had passed Moscal, one of her fellow hunters.

It was a tiny registration in her mind, an impossibility. She couldn't remember where she thought she had seen him. Was he one of the people from the passageway? Was he closing the door? Was it earlier than that? Time was such a fractured concept, and her memory and thoughts were disjointed.

As that realisation hit, Nerysiel, hesitated, and her shoulder hit the wall with force enough to bruise. Or it could have been the wall hitting her, given the guards had found their momentum and the final inches in the closing had increased in speed and she spun sideways, dazed, but she did not fall.

But despite her prior speed, all of a sudden she couldn't move. All she could do was stop and try unsuccessfully to think, or remember. Had she missed more than Moscal in the crush? Had Moscal seen her? Had Moscal brought anyone with him? Was she running to her death based on the words of a cat-not-cat and the fire that was as he said, in existence? 

Had seeing someone from her home all been the trick of a wanting mind?

She felt the heat of the fire at her feet, ready to snap and burn. The door was reluctant to hold together despite its burst of cooperativeness, and it was a terrible slowness as it came into contact with its other half, a horrible parody to events in the cellar of the fortress, not that Nerysiel remembered that at the moment. It was a guard's face she locked eyes with in those final seconds as she hesitated, shouting a demand or an offer or an apology; whatever it was, it was lost in the choking wind and the stone shuddering to a stop.

But the guard didn't reopen the door. Nerysiel was outside and had only one place to go as her lungs cried out in the rapidly thinning air, calf muscles seizing up at her too long pause.

She had lost scant minutes to a possibility, to sensibility trying to prevail. No, not sensibility; doubt.

Nerysiel turned and ran.

It was much too far for her people to have fled the village, and she had accepted upon beginning from – wherever she had been before this scorched forest – that this would be a rescue, because her family would be trapped. It was too far away for all of them to escape, even with warning. Her usual journeys were long, but perhaps it could be much, much less at full sprint and taking liberties like crossing ignited woods filled with charred Dead, recent as well as not. 

She kept going with as few detours as she could manage, never stopping. She ran at full tilt, fire and flame her only companion, trees being turned to cinders before they'd had a chance to fall or blaze from within. She stumbled and tripped but attained her speed; the ground was warm underfoot, the soil gently smouldering as the fire seeped into that too, taking all forms of life it could find, and it didn't have the courtesy of leaving evidence. If someone had been trapped out here and fallen, if her village had indeed fled and were out in this—

What was she doing, running further in?

The question went away as quickly as it occurred. There was only this. Only this running through burned, thinning air.

It was too difficult to think.

The black cloud ruminated above her as she ran, a force and testament to someone's power as well as its own entity. It wasn't truly Free Magic, or if it was, it failed to make Charter mages in its presence ill, perhaps because like everything else it touched, its metallic odour was burned away. Nerysiel wouldn't have cared even if she could smell it, even if it held her down, even if it burned her alive; she would keep running.

Running was all there ever was, all there ever had been.

She would get there.

She would outwit the flames.

She would.

She would.

\- - - -

It wasn't as though she had lived there all her life, but she found it.

Her house. 

Her village.

Home.

It was more her intuition that told her when to stop. Or it might have been her aching limbs, or the natural path left untouched in the landscape that had been so alive and was now a washed out painting with no finer details beyond a red and orange glare.

The fire was dying. Or retreating back to its cloud, out of fuel, its job done; its challenge to its maker to keep going denied, and instead, it had been restrained. 

No matter its need, there needed to be witnesses.

It was not meant to pillage and plunder all things, and it was not meant for greater things; it was meant to _show_. Show that it could be done. A test, but also meant to maim or kill: but only ever had this fire been born as a distraction. Though it had run free, it was checked, and now _completely_ checked. Now what remained were only cinders.

And ruin.

There were no buildings; they were gone, burnt to a crisp in but a moment. The ground was black and infertile. There was nothing and no one; just the haze and heat and her breathing in her ears and nothing more.

It was all gone.

Everyone was gone.

Everyone.

Gone.

Just her.

She would not be alone for long.

Nerysiel slumped to her knees, exhausted and broken. She could go no further. She could run no more.

There was nothing and nowhere to go. This was where she belonged. Right here, on this soil, where her village had been, where her forest and wood had been. Where she had hunted and provided, defended and loved, and blood had dripped unto her kitchen floor as she helped her mother bring back yet another soul from the brink of death; where she had promised to see the spring, where she had almost died and lived, where she had made a promise to help and do the right thing.

All gone.

She didn't have enough air to cry or speak.

She didn't have enough air to breathe. It was close and stifling and she could imagine those fingers of bone wrapping around her neck and choking out the last of it, as they should have done to begin with.

She would go to her people.

She would be gone, too.

If only she had not survived, she never would have known this was to happen.

Knowledge was truly a burden, wasn't it?

If only she had never known.

If only…

Then she heard the bells.

_Sleep,_ they said. _Sleep_.

\- - - -

It had been over inside of two hours, perhaps a little longer.

It was easy for any who saw the looming cloud to think it would scar the sky forever and always, but it blew away, its destructive deed done, and encouraged into leaving by clever weather working. The blues and stars of a natural early evening came back with not even a hint of what had transpired in the sky itself.

The forest was another matter. As the imminent danger lifted with the smoke, the damage was evident and truly eternal. A wood that had once been a home to the Dead was gone; a forest that had once been home to many villages and homesteads and farms and people and animals was also gone. 

The land was marked, but with time, it could recover.

But not for those who saw it. It would be far beyond their lifetimes. An entire forest, spreading north-west of Chasel to High Bridge, growing for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, was gone in but a single thought of desire to wipe it out.

It was when the shock subsided and the empty landscape witnessed that the anguish came.

It was an anguish embodied by fear as well as despair, an anguish that was deep and cutting and immovable. No one knew what to do. No one knew what they _should_ do, where they should go, how to move forward. It was hard to ignore something and carry on when that something demanded to be noticed, when that something could never not be noticed.

Perhaps in twenty or thirty years people could ignore it, having learned to live with it: but twenty or thirty years was a very, very long time away.

Rain came, part natural, part summoned. A litany, as within itself, the rain carried the melancholy of its people who felt the loss most dearly.

In High Bridge, people shuffled in the streets, stared out the now open gates of the entryway. Others, originally only meaning to pass through, took to their boats and left. It was a night they could put behind them. But most stayed, soaked to the bone, putting out the remains of the fire that they could tackle. Looked. Thought. Despaired. Anguished. Wondered. Feared. Knew what had been lost. And through it all was a figure that walked alone.

He carried himself with a familiarity to this sort of anguish that shook a person once in their life, as if he knew it intimately, and carried its memory with him every waking moment. He walked straight and tall, and in one hand he carried a mahogany handled bell woven with the Charter, and he wore a surcoat of midnight blue powdered with the emblem of silver keys.

The people parted. They quietened. They watched.

He left the city at the entranceway, and stepped across the threshold to the woods.

The Kingdom felt the loss of this place, as did the Charter; it knew. It knew of the people in the city that needed to process what they could barely accept; the people still out there, somehow surviving but riddled with burns and scarring, slipping to Death in painful slowness. Even the Dead that had somehow managed to remain in life were not untouched, broken and weary, not able to slip out of taken skin that was now warped beyond anything they themselves could conjure.

The figure walked across that threshold, bearing all that knowledge. He stood for a moment, and the Kingdom and its people as witness stood with baited breath, and he rang the bell.

It was not a command or a skip of the feet. It was a soft, calming peel, a soothing hand, a gentle smile, that tomorrow would be better, a wish to close your eyes and forget and sleep. 

The people of High Bridge accepted it, and returned to their homes, their beds, their families, and in that silence they mourned.

The dying welcomed it, felt warm and thankful as they whispered their goodbyes to their loved ones and peacefully slipped away.

The Dead in their twisted coffins of rotten flesh desired it and tumbled to a river they had never wished to see again.

It was a call to sleep to all who heard it, to lay down arms and heavy thoughts, of healing and the acknowledgement of loss.

It was Ranna that Terciel rang, her small voice proud and strong and deeply moving in her requiem. He might have asked for his audience to listen by using Saraneth, but he knew tonight, tonight Ranna would be heard. 

He was not immune, much as he liked to be. This dirge was for all, including him, and she whispered and told him to rest when this was done, that he had done enough. Rest and let it be. Ranna swayed, endless, over and over until she was satisfied and Terciel replaced the bell to his bandoleer.

He had done his duties as Abhorsen-in-Waiting. He could return to his vessel, find Mogget, and sail away to sleep beneath a bed of stars, far, far away from here - back to the House, safe and sound and restful with his arm truly healed and the troubles of the Kingdom and the regency and the source of this destruction to be dealt with tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Not yet, he thought. 

Not yet.

\- - - -

Terciel went out, into the rain. Mogget walked with him, two steps for each one of Terciel's strides. He gave no vocal indication of his destination, and it was partly his gut that guided him, partly honed senses.

Ranna still rang in his mind. Sleep, rest; just return home. 

He couldn't stop. He couldn't rest. 

There was still someone left to find.

He had been reckless.

When she had gone, at first, Terciel didn't know what to do. They had weaselled as much as they were going to get out of Mogget together, and his words had been fairly transparent. But then came his moment of inaction when she ran, when he was startled by the news, and she had slipped through his fingers. 

He couldn't quite correlate the empty space at his side as fact, because all he could see was Nerysiel's face.

But she was gone. It wasn't a letting, or even something he could stop. She went. She left him behind in a heartbeat, running back to those she cared for the most.

He ignored that sting, that abandonment, for the clarity that hit him most of all in that moment was that he could lose her.

No. It wasn't a maybe. 

He would lose her.

He didn't need to press Mogget to know that the fire would be magical and would only stop when its creator deemed its work done. If said creator had a specific goal in mind, he could only guess - it was clear that whomever it was didn't care about the collateral innocents caught between. Or about Nerysiel, especially if she stepped out into it.

He had been reckless. He told Mogget to take the boy and return him to the tavern. It was a task he should have finished himself, but he had to follow Nerysiel. Now he had decided, it wouldn't let him go, and he had sped after her, into the city. 

But he was unfamiliar with the twists and turns of High Bridge's underbelly and it had taken a frustrating amount of time to leave it, and it hadn't helped that his irritation at the knowledge of Nerysiel being in danger hampered his better judgement as well as his rationality. And his wrist helped none, with its flares of intermittent pain, in itself a jagged reminder of the woman gone.

Every setback was a major failure, not a minor one; every minute lost, a lifetime. 

If only he hadn't hesitated. Be more decisive, Terciel. The story of his life, it seemed. 

Eventually, he made it out.

He found the gates to the city closed, but that hadn't been a problem. An exertion of the Charter and his will and they tore from their metal restraints, flinging ajar as if they were made of paper, guards scattering in all directions and making no move to stop him. That too, was reckless. His glamour had long lifted when his strength had faltered in the dungeon, and they knew. They saw the bells and the surcoat and they knew. They did not dare to stop an Abhorsen when he was at work.

They dared not stop a man with that look on his face.

The spells kept coming, drawing on strength reserves he wasn't even aware he still possessed: if Nerysiel were still here, she would have told him to put to better use by healing his hand. But that pain drove him, reminded him of what wasn't at his side. The bandage reminded him. The stitches sketched across his wrist reminded him. 

The fire was already beginning to die but he helped it on its way, the whistled marks conjuring a wind that would carry its sparks to the sea or until it disintegrated to nothing, whichever came first. The rain was next, a bursting of clouds that would have held without his prompting. It felt appropriate. The rain would settle the Old Kingdom and its people, and whatever of the blaze remained wouldn't for much longer.

It was then he rang Ranna. He didn't remember removing the bell from his bandoleer, but she was right. This moment was hers to quell.

The multiple castings whilst already weakened, and sounding Ranna without singular focus? Reckless and stupid. Reckless and standoffish to the people he deeply cared for. It was not who he was. Not unless he slipped. Not unless he felt like…

It all paled to her, to finding Nerysiel.

He could not fool himself.

Was it out of a fledgling feeling of love? Perhaps. But it was guilt that made him search - her assistance had been at his bequest. It was anger at himself - it was his hesitation that meant she had ventured out here alone. And most of all it was reckless abandon - whatever he needed to do to reach her, he would do it.

He had saved her once already, and she had saved him in return. Twice. It was repaying the favour.

It also wasn't.

It was the possibility, the panic of loss… and he was no stranger to it. Things had been different back then; circumstances were different now. But he would not let that history repeat itself if he could avoid it.

And Charter, Charter he wanted to save her. He wanted her to live. He would search and he would find her.

If he were not used to the aftermath of fire, he might have thought it was snow that fell from the sky. Instead it was ash from burnt wood, bodies, places and things. He stepped through it as quickly as he dared, unthinking to its contents, leaving footprints behind in the already blanketed landscape.

It was hauntingly serene, and so, so interlinked with Death. He had opened so many doors in ringing Ranna, but he didn't worry. There was nothing for the Dead to come to. This would be a place they would avoid, as it was devoid of everything they sought after, everything that mattered to them.

Hopefully not quite everything. The evidence was against him, but still he wouldn't quit, and Terciel's pace quickened because he would find her. It was folly, but he would find her.

"Where are we going?" Mogget asked, eventually. Terciel didn't recall his return, nor how long he had been following him. 

Mogget's tone was dry and Terciel knew he didn't care, but there was something in the albino dwarf that wanted to hear Terciel say it out loud and to admit it so he could move on with his pitiable existence as servant to an Abhorsen-in-Waiting in the middle of a crisis, where said Abhorsen-in-Waiting was acting rashly, and that Terciel would hear himself speak and know how stupid it was for them to be out here and Ranna really did have the right idea after all.

"We're going to find Nerysiel," Terciel replied.

"She is just _one_ person," Mogget sniffed. "Why is she more important than the rest? You feel it, I feel it, so many have gone and it iss likely she has too. If we find her she will be long gone past the First Gate, fortunate to not have been slaved. No one could have survived out here."

"Not if they were out here from the start. She wasn't out here much longer than before we were," Terciel countered.

"Hope," Mogget said, treating the word as if he were uttering a curse, something vile and wicked and evil. "You're young. You're not the first. But you will lose it."

He sounded quite certain.

Terciel didn't care to indulge Mogget and his premonitions based on his long service to his lineage – partly because he feared he was right, and Mogget knew it when all he heard in return was silence – and so instead he pressed forward, doubling his pace.

All that mattered was-

Nerysiel.

There, on the ground. 

There she was.

\- - - -

It was dark and it was raining.

Raining fire, or just rain?

Nerysiel opened an eye. _Sleep_ , repeated the ethereal voice, whisking her away from all her cares and the pain of the present where everything would hurt.

She ignored it. She had to wake up.

It was raining. And there was ash, too. Ash was winning for weather dominance. 

Ashes from the fire.

Everyone, gone.

The reminder broke her again. The heartache should have killed her, that intense and final a thing, that loss, but it didn't. Still she breathed as she clawed at the ground, unwilling to believe it or accept it, there had to be something left, someone had to survive this—

Then it occurred to her that she had.

She had survived this.

She didn't want to be the survivor.

Ashes pressed close, packing her in. They would bury her. She would be with the Dead soon enough. And there, they would be together again.

\- - - -

"Nerysiel," Terciel breathed.

She was half buried. Her legs were covered and her hair was thoroughly saturated by ash and rain both, and he dug her out best he could manage with his one good hand. If she noticed him, she didn't acknowledge him; at least not at first. As she began to emerge, he saw a spark of recognition in her eye, and her hands found his chest, pushing him away.

"No. No, no, no—"

"We have to go."

"No! Let go. Let me go, Terciel, please just let me—"

"You can do this," he said, gently, stilling her thrashing fists that pounded and flailed, trying to get him to leave her alone. "I know you can."

She struggled against his hold with her entire self, now, shaking her head. "No. No! Don't try to save me. Stop _trying_ to save me. I should have died-" her voice cracked, but she kept on her bitter march, "-and I should be dead now. Twice over! Do you understand? How could you understand? I've lost everything and I should have been the one that was lost!"

In that moment, she realised that, deep down… she had long ago accepted her path, her fate, that a necromancer would be the one to kill her.

Or a Hand, in the first case.

Meaningless technicalities.

If he left her here—

If he left her here, she could right things, or balance them out.

How could come later. That was for the living to riddle out. That was for people who had that kind of knowledge, knowledge she would never learn… the endless knowledge that had always been denied to her.

"I'm so sorry," Terciel whispered back, and he meant it. "But I do. I do understand." He sighed, a sigh borne from a burden carried for many years. It reminded her of the heartbreak that ought to have killed her, but didn't. It was a pain that was never meant to be shared, but it felt like hers, and she knew that he meant this, too, that he understood.

Her fists relaxed, and their hands were held instead.

She waited for the world to spin from its axis: she waited for a change. Nothing came. The destruction was still the same, the sky was still a dark shadow masked by ash. Mogget was still sat cross-legged away from them, and Terciel was still over her, asking her to live, to stay.

She had been mistaken in thinking that there was no one left who cared, that she had lost everything. Nearly everything: but not this. Not him.

Nerysiel sat upright. He was knelt opposite her, but they didn't rise, and he didn't loosen his hold. To be fair, she didn't, either.

"We have to leave," she whispered, trying to figure out what made sense when so little did. But focusing on Terciel helped. His mission, whatever it really was. "We have to find out why someone would do this."

Terciel wavered. He hated himself for it, and he knew Nerysiel knew, and he had let her down once again in not being strong enough to say it right away. She would withdraw from him, and rightfully so. There were only so many times he could keep her in the dark, only to be told what she needed to hear for that moment, and not the truth.

He had tried that approach. It had led to this destruction. Even if it had been put into place long before he came here, and he could not have known… even if Nerysiel had been tied into it somehow, or not at all, and telling her would have made no difference… it didn't change anything. High Bridge was asleep at his hand, spared until they woke. So many dead. So much lost. 

It wasn't his first failure, but in numbers, in span, it was the largest. A part of him would feel this for the rest of his days.

He had sought a sign and walked right into a trap and the prelude had begun. That meant that whatever was going to happen in the capital would happen soon - maybe it was even happening right now. He was meant to be incapacitated, alone… and meant to be blamed and used as a scapegoat, as whatever, _whoever_ had done this moved forward with their plans. The Abhorsens separated and isolated, the last of their line; a slow, choked end, unlike the royal bloodline, ended all at once.

But he didn't _have_ to be alone, if Nerysiel was willing.

And she had been so far. Even here, even like this, surrounded by Death, scarred by something that would never heal and would never be right.

Terciel realised, then, that he would have to tell her everything. Because she _was_ willing, and always had been.

"I already know why this came to pass," he admitted, at last. Not for long, but he had known it, all the same. "I have to tell you everything. I have to tell you the truth."

He waited. She looked at him, then away, thinking. 

Both of them knew this was the moment. Her judgement, her precipice. Would she back away?

"I'm listening."

She had chosen to jump.

It held. She would make it to the other side.

"The regency is going to fall."

And he jumped with her, too.


	15. Part 2: Better, Safe

Seven days.

A week since her family had passed to the Ninth Gate and beyond. 

And a week since she had acquiesced to knowing more: to carrying that terrible burden without the power to do anything about it.

Nerysiel felt that now. It didn't feel like a week. The days had begun to blur into one somewhere in the middle, though it was probable that they had in fact begun to blur from the beginning. At first, it seemed like progress when they left High Bridge… even if they were going in the opposite direction of their ultimate destination, Belisaere.

Belisaere. She had never been, only knew it by name and destination of goods, or the passing remnants of the Royal Guard; it was a mystery, a mystery she would unravel no sooner than the moment she went to save it. Or, more specifically, to save as much as they were able; Terciel's mood had been dour, distracted. But it wasn't the self-placed blame for High Bridge that was eating him up. 

It was a mixture of things. He'd redoubled his efforts in reaching Belisaere, and assisting his aunt in her endeavour, and saving the regent, a complicated web of tasks so the result would not be a _repeat_ of High Bridge. The search for a better ending tired him, so many options, so many endings, so many much more or less preferred than the last. 

But every now and then that guilt would strike, the image of the fire's aftermath, the feeling that he could have done more, and he saw the same end for Belisaere. Even if the options of how the fall would manifest in the city were still endless, and impossible to prepare for without his presence within it. 

She knew as much because she had asked, and he had told her. It was a strange thing. He had kept the truth about his intentions in High Bridge quiet but after he had told her, told her the truth in the ashes of what had been her home, the barriers faded. There were no more secrets between them.

At first, there hadn't been much to say, so no secret keeping was simple. Just fired instructions as they sailed back to the Abhorsen's House, because Terciel had want of a Paperwing, a flying device, that would aid them in reaching Belisaere. A boat would only take them so far north, as the estuaries to the sea were also to the south.

He hadn't mentioned the fact that most of the horses they could have hired or purchased were probably dead, as well as their owners. But the thought loomed over her, anyway.

He also wanted to return to the House to see if his aunt, or the Clayr, had sent word. And lastly, because it was safe: they needed to heal, both of them.

The two days on the river were especially hard for Terciel. She had to redo his stitches completely once, and had re-bandaged his wound on three separate occasions when blood started to seep through from his over-exertion. It had been the last of those times when she had re-stitched him. 

Nerysiel took up the brunt of the physical work on the boat, and even with her inexperience, it wasn't a difficult voyage, per say: there wasn't much to do going down river, aside from guiding the boat where it needed, dropping and pulling in the anchor when they rested, and trimming the sail which was unfortunately a two person job. Still, Terciel had ample time to rest and recover. But he did not. It was Terciel's whistled wind, the constant use of the Charter as well as the physical assistance he gave her onboard, that had wearied him; and meant he could not dream up the fortitude to heal himself until long, long after he'd collapsed in his rooms at the House.

It was the next afternoon when Nerysiel saw him again, directed to the Abhorsen's study by a Sending. He was reading a book that he quickly snapped shut on her entry: the reading was something to keep his eyes occupied, whilst most of his mind focused on the healing of his arm.

"I didn't want to look at it too much," Terciel had admitted. She hadn't pegged him for squeamish, but after four days with reopening wounds and a peppering of minor spells he kept casting and repeated stitches and _nothing_ done for the inside of his body, she couldn't blame him for it.

He left the stitches in for another full day until she took them out. It was strange to see his arm without them, given that most of their relationship had comprised of having those stitches in. In their wake, the stitches left behind a scar, bruised and fading: as if it had been many months ago that he had been assaulted and not mere days.

It felt like a month. Time was terribly slow. 

Terciel, for his part, felt the safety strongly. He disappeared to his study and his rooms for hours at a time, and never seemed to be in the same place for more than half an hour. There was no word from the Abhorsen, and he was keeping himself sharp and fit just in case, even if resolution could arrive at any hour, even if some other outbreak of Dead appeared that he would have to deal with in her absence. But no news arrived. As each day went by - and the count finally crept upward to five days total – it was only a matter of time before he would leave for the capital without further instruction. 

It was inevitable. He was well enough to leave _now_. 

Nerysiel wasn't so sure about herself. The voyage on the boat had been… good, for her, the opposite of Terciel's experience. The need to always be doing something, to be attending to their vessel, was useful at keeping her occupied; drive to exhaustion, it meant that she didn't have time for sleeplessness and nightmares. It was not until they had reached the House that the insomnia had reared its ugly head, when the nightmares came back full force.

By sight, the House looked safe. But she did not feel it. The House was as foreign as to her as she imagined Belisaere to be.

First, there was the House itself. Her whole village could fit inside the island twice over, and if all the buildings could be squashed into one, the actual whitewash structure that was the true house still beat her village in dimension. Every room was grand, larger than any house she and her parents had built; larger than any room not meant for a public gathering. Five people could sleep here, she thought in the workshop. Her entire village and their neighbours could eat here, she thought in the dining room. High Bridge and its entire market could frolic here, she thought in the gardens. 

Absolutely, it was impressive. But it was also empty. 

Not of Sendings, because they were everywhere, scurrying like mice and appearing when she least expected them thanks to the sound of their footsteps which, like the House's occupants, were non-existent. They were alive, in their way, she supposed – each one carried a little of the Charter, from what she could tell – but they were not _alive_. This was a house built for a life the Abhorsen's could not have, called hither and thither, and a lineage that no longer existed.

It was such an achingly empty place for just her and Terciel alone. She imagined that, if it wasn’t for their need to interact – or for an Abhorsen and her apprentice to interact – its two occupants could go for days on end without seeing, contacting, anyone else.

That bothered her more than she cared to admit.

Next were her rooms.

In her bedroom – across the hall from Terciel's – she could not relax. The bed was horrendous. The sheets swallowed her whole and all the bedclothes were white, pure white, and all she could see was ash and death and she spent as little time in there as she could. She was glad for the curtains around the four-poster extravagance to hide it from sight. 

When she did sleep, it was on a lounging chair that was stiff and back-breaking, covering herself with a moth-eaten blanket she'd pulled out from a cupboard after much searching, because the Sendings were diligent about this sort of thing. But that was only when she _did_ sleep, whenever she was not pursued by insomnia. Wherever she rested, she tossed and turned and thought and couldn't drift away. There was nothing to do, in this House. There just wasn't anything for _her_ to do but heal, and her healing was harder. It would take more than seven days. It could take more than her lifetime, even. She had seen grief and sadness, witnessed it in other people. She knew it herself before this. Sometimes, she could be objective, knowing what she was doing, knew it all, but still doing it anyway; other times, that sense eluded her.

Nerysiel tried other places in her insomnia, wandering the House at all hours, and often alone. She didn't really feel right entering most of the rooms in the House, even if she'd wanted to: and Nerysiel hadn't. There was no point in entering the armoury. Or the music room. The basement door she half-heartedly tried, but was predictably locked. The other bedrooms were empty and as colossal as hers (Terciel's remained a mystery and she wouldn't admit to that curiosity of wanting to see it). The Abhorsen's rooms were under a spelled lock, not that she'd wanted to enter them. 

The kitchen was a waking nightmare because the Sendings wouldn't leave her alone as she prowled through their inventory: and preparing any sort of food with dozens of unseeing faces _watching her_ was off-putting and quickly made her lose her appetite. That, and the fact they usually thrust something at her as soon as she entered the dining room, negated the need for her to even enter the kitchens even more. 

Crossing them off, that left two places: the reading room, and the gardens. The study felt off limits unless Terciel was there, and even when he was, she hadn't dared touch anything that wasn't on the table in the centre, and most of it was too complex for her to attempt to read anyway. Even the reading room was a land of endless answers that she couldn't begin to figure out questions for. Oh, she wished she could read properly! All that knowledge, denied to her simply because she couldn't understand a uniform set of squiggly lines. But she couldn't, and so it was, even as she persisted, staring at words that might have been important in the hopes she would adapt, and would suddenly understand them. She didn't.

The gardens felt worse than the House. 

It was not helped by the wall. It blocked the sound of the river, but not the sky, and that should have been satisfactory, if it wasn't for the fact the whole place felt artificial and less than real. Everything was out of season. There were birds in the trees, but the wrong sorts of trees, the wrong sorts of birds, planted and placed for aesthetics sake and not because it was a means of which to survive, something to live off. The gardens were too loud in their silence, too peaceful in their presence, and she hated it worse than the swallowing sheets.

This House was not a home. It was a prison.

Terciel clearly didn't share her disturbed feelings towards her new habitat. This _was_ his home, and had been for a very long time. The island only served to point out their differences even further than she already knew, and it troubled her. She did not want to stay here. 

Yet, she also did. It was not a bad home, if you liked this kind of thing. This weighting on by Sendings, the retreat away from real life needlessly grandiose; but if your real life was banishing the Dead back to whence they came, she could begin to see the appeal of the escapism.

So she didn't hate it. Not entirely. But still, she wanted to be doing. She was restless. It was the lack of doing that was making this prison intolerable, not its walls of all kinds, and not the company. It was just… she had had enough of precipices, at least for now, and remembering terrible, terrible things, when she could be doing more… or even just _something_.

On this, day seven, Nerysiel was in the gardens, sat on the edge of the fountain, checking over her equipment. A fountain especially was an excessive and pointless addition to the grounds and in her week here, only the Sendings seemed to have enjoyed it, if the fountain's maintenance could be called that.

It was still early morning, an hour or so after dawn; the sun hadn't peaked over the island's wall barricade yet, but its rays were hitting the observatory at least. Nerysiel had wandered the House until the wilting hours of the night, and had awoken about half an hour prior, having simply dropped out of consciousness on her lounge chair in her room with her moth-eaten blanket and the simplest book she could find (that she could still barely read) crushing into her nose during the entirety of her brief slumber. That was happening a lot lately. 

But she didn't go back to sleep, and she hadn't tried, instead sloping outside and hoping that today would be the day where the gardens would feel like her version of 'the outside' and not a horrendous copy. It hadn't. But there was light, there was grass, and there was a breeze, and there were bright stones in the fountain worthy of their new role as dagger sharpeners.

She could have taken something from the armoury. Charter, she could have changed her equipment entirely, swapped her bow and got a new knife: but these were her things, _hers_. Her bow had belonged to her father and the dagger had once been her mother's. It was a physical reminder with every strike, every blow, and every release of a crafted arrow of those she had lost… and that, that she was not ready to let go of. She had been doing it in her father's memory for long enough, after all. 

It was not just the equipment that was under threat of being replaced. Every morning, whenever she'd made her way back to her borrowed room, the Sendings had laid out a dress. The same one, not that she looked too closely, and every morning she had spurned it, instead donning hunting leathers and borrowing a shirt from one of the wardrobes in the other bedrooms that was too big for her, because what had been hers was now more rag than shirt thanks to its time as a swab. But it was the principle, and it was pride, that did not allow her to wear that dress, to upgrade her bow and dagger. Her things had survived along with her and she would keep them, holding them ever tightly: and where necessary, she would also keep them maintained.

Later, once her dagger was sharp – as it had been yesterday and the day before that – she would move onto her bow. The armoury, where she had also swiped some arrows – her quiver was running low and she wasn't so sure about felling trees at whim without a Sending's approval, and how she got said approval was a mystery in itself, they weren't exactly forthcoming conversation partners – had been home to a polish of some sort that would work well for the carved wood. She had taken the polish two days ago and no one had complained, yet, so it seemed no one minded or cared.

But first was the dagger, metal glinting sunrays down to flecks of stone in the fountain as she manoeuvred it this way and that. The gleam wasn't necessary, but a dull blade was an insult and cleanliness couldn't be overstated when a weapon had a habit of being covered in blood from attacks or from sewing up a wound.

As she carried on reflecting the beams of light, she was suddenly not alone. A single speck reflected downwards to the tiling that surrounded the fountain was pounced upon by claws and paws, and then the white shape darted to another sphere, then another, as she deliberately shone them across the ground.

It was not the first time Mogget had done this, and she felt a familiar sensation of amusement. Though, like all her emotions at the moment, it was hard to call up, and harder still to put a name to it. But it was no less genuine, now it was here.

"Good morning, Mogget," she said, with a wicked gleam in her eye because now the amusement was out, it wasn't going back in the bottle as easy as it had left. The cat didn't reply, crushing a new bauble with his paws in triumph, only to have that dastardly light escape once again.

Thrice more he followed it with a pounce and a lunge and disappointment and Nerysiel let up, twisting the dagger in her fingers so nothing would reflect. Mogget blinked, back in control of his senses, and he was frowning.

"You made me drop breakfast," he said accusingly.

"I didn't make you do anything," Nerysiel replied innocently. "I was minding my own business, sharpening my knife, and you came here of your own accord."

"It's this form," Mogget lamented, annoyed at himself: and, as Nerysiel noted, with a touch of embarrassment that he would never in a million years admit. "With all this intelligence, it can't resist a beam of sun bouncing off metal. And certain individuals exploit things which they should not."

Nerysiel had a piece of cloth over the dagger now, rubbing off a particularly stubborn smear, checking her reflection at the same time. Same face, same freckles, same eyes; she ignored the fact she looked gaunt and different and not much like herself, even in her hunting leathers. But she didn't look back down at the cat. "Why choose that form if you know you can't resist?"

"Birds are tastier, and easier to catch," Mogget replied, licking his lips, and he offered no further explanation. Then again, it was fair. He had just proved he could be catty even if he was not actually a cat. Was it side effects of wearing a cat suit? Nerysiel had no idea.

"It more preferable than your other form," she commented, replacing the dagger in its sheath. She had other ways in which to torment him.

"Really," Mogget ventured, aiming for uncaring, but that he had even asked revealed he cared a little bit. She was very good at seeing right through him and, with the dagger put away, all bets were off on what she would do next. Call him a masochist, but he was… intrigued.

Nerysiel didn't disappoint. "And it suits you, given that you _are_ a house pet."

Mogget spluttered.

Oh, he really _did_ care a great deal about his image.

She should really find some way of occupying herself rather than vexing something potentially evil, but… for his loss of cool, it was very, very worth it.

"I had no idea you valued your life so little," Mogget hissed. But he wasn't menacing, with his fur along his back standing on end like a porcupine, as if it had been frozen that way. He might have even passed for cute, if he had not been, well. Mogget. And she valued her life somewhat more than the malice that remark would bring her.

"Now, now," she said soothingly, not quite escaping mocking him. "It's friendly! Not to mention approachable, as it's one that many wouldn't suspect. And it is less suspicious than a small man." 

Nerysiel stood, picking the cat up – and again he protested, scrabbling, but she kept the claw end safely away from herself – and started back around the fountain, towards the trees, where most of the birds would likely be nesting or flying about. "Now, where's the bird you dropped? Ah, there it is." She reached to get it, and Mogget stared glumly until, to his surprise, she passed it to him. She jostled her bow against her shoulder, indicating it with a flick of her head, suggestive. "Do you want another?"

Mogget arched an eyebrow. "The Sendings won't take too kindly to you shooting birds in the orchard."

"They might not," Nerysiel agreed, "But I can't stand the thought of them preparing me another meal of Charter knows what. Birds for all of us. And rabbits, too, if I can count on you to find them."

"That depends," said Mogget, evasively. He muttered something like a 'no'. Then he thought about it a little longer.

Then, ultimately, he added: "How many birds?"

\- - - -

Nerysiel had to shoot down quite a few birds before Mogget was satisfied enough to tell her where exactly that the rabbits were hiding. That was where his assistance had ended, and he had either sunned himself, or tried to steal a morsel from the growing pile of rabbit – even if a warning shot whooshing right past his tail the first time he had attempted snacking deterred him from trying too many more times after.

"Your fickle stomachs," he complained, whining in pain at the butchery that was going on to his dinner. 

Nerysiel had carted her haul back to the kitchens, then had promptly taken the kitchens over, shooing away the Sendings who had appeared, as predicted, to take the meat from her and to make something with it of their choosing. They also didn't approve of her sourcing of said food, but were also eager not to waste. At least she assumed that they didn't approve; it was difficult to say beyond the impatient tapping of feet.

She laid down the rabbit on one a counter top and set about skinning it, leaving the rest of dinner unguarded. Mogget had sprung up onto a conveniently placed stool and was staring, begrudging her every knife twist and turn, his eyes greedily devouring the meal that was denied to him.

"Why must I have to wait?" he bemoaned, louder this time.

"First: they're not all for you. And second: shouldn't you wait for Terciel before you start eating, anyway?"

"The Abhorsen-in-Waiting," Mogget said, laboriously going over the title as she had neglected to say it and had instead chosen his name, "Has no control over my eating habits. Neither does the Abhorsen herself, for that matter; I eat when I please, and often alone. You should be grateful the Sendings are so willing to make you a meal, you know. They won't for me unless an Abhorsen is home."

"That sounds as though you are trying to pity yourself, Mogget." Nerysiel replied without looking at him, moving on to the next rabbit. It was slightly larger than the last, but both seemed to be well fed and there was a decent amount of meat on them. "And a convenient excuse, since I know you have a form with thumbs."

She wiggled her own to demonstrate, balancing the knife handle in her fingers. Mogget muttered something unintelligible about him being allowed to, but she didn't care enough to ask him what he meant. He watched her like a hawk as she moved onto the last rabbit, sniffing out the one she'd just finished. Then he let out another yowl of complaint. "You missed a bit."

"Then stop distracting me!"

"Am I distracting you?" 

Mogget smirked. Nerysiel gritted her teeth. "No."

She had to wonder how it had come to this. Making dinner in a stranger's robust kitchen, populated by beings whom could cook and clean and wash you (and would), and a talking demonic creature masquerading as a cat who complained about her livelihood.

The most surprising of the list was probably the cat. Not the demonic, evil part; but the fact they were continually conversing. In their utter dislike for each other, and forced into company – she imagined on Mogget's part it was for someone new to annoy and pester, as new targets were obviously few and far between – they had entered an odd predicament close to friendship.

If it could be called friendship, with the constant bickering and sideswipes in an attempt to one up the other. But her intolerance had made her honest; his intolerance, his malice, had started as an attempt at figuring out the strange young woman who didn't take him on first appearance but at first gut feeling and she was right. He _was_ dangerous.

Dangerously hungry at the moment, but that was mutual for both parties. Fortunately for their stomach grumblings, Nerysiel had, at last, finished skinning the rabbits and the remaining birds, and was turning towards the stove. 

A Sending rushed forward, startled, wanting to help and please – or possibly just to keep its pristine workspace structured without outside interference. She could already see three cowled figures casually piling up the skins she'd left on the counter top, and casually wiping down that same surface she had just used, all whilst pretending that they were not.

The thing was, that only made her more determined to do it for herself. "No, thank you," she said, still polite, but her wide smile was false. "I'd like to do it for myself."

The Sending reluctantly stepped back, but it pulled one of the skillets hanging above the stove away with it, hiding the cast iron inside its Charter robes.

"It thinks you will ruin them," Mogget mused, from his place on the stool. He was back to cleaning his paws, occasionally dabbing one on the counter, so the Sending next to him would have to wipe it clean again. "As I think you will ruin the food. So many votes are against you."

"Do something useful. Thinking positively would be a start," Nerysiel shot back, choosing her own frying pan and some herbs that she recognised from the organised rack, neatly labelled. Another Sending had – where from she had no idea, the cellar? – produced a bottle of wine that it thought would make an excellent sauce base, but she ignored it. Sauce bases were for mansions and frivolity and she wanted hearty wholesome grub. Or just grub she'd made herself. 

"Without help," she insisted, at the Sending. "If it's good wine, we can drink it?"

The Sending looked at the bottle, then the woman, and shook its head, darting off back to the cellar to find something suitable, something palatable, that went with rabbit, but was not to be served in it. Several more Sendings scrambled down the stairs after the first, in a hurry.

"Now you've done it," remarked Mogget, watching them go.

"Odd. It still feels as though I have an audience." Nerysiel didn't want to look, but she knew that more Sendings stood behind her, giving her respectful breathing room. Despite their initial resistance of her making her own lunch, now they were reluctant to do anything: or even approach. 

She didn't really think to question it, and neither did she know why.

Mogget knew. He licked his paws delicately, lost in thought.

Nerysiel looked over to the cat with her preparations complete, ready to start cooking. "Will you retrieve Terciel for me?"

" _Me_?" scoffed the cat, keenly paying attention when it involved his own labour. "It pains me to point this out to you, but that's what the gong is for: a gong that you've clearly overlooked at every time it's being rung."

"I've noticed, thank you. I was simply asking you to find Terciel," she repeated. "Please," she evened out.

Mogget was silent. "I'll ask a Sending to ring the gong on your behalf."

"Good enough," Nerysiel approved. "Off you go."

\- - - -

Terciel was not asleep.

He wanted to be. His House, his room, his bed! It was a joy, a pleasure, to sleep in late when he was here, when he was home. To go to bed late and rise even later, just because he could; something he did not get to do very often because business often called, or because there were other tasks that required his attention.

Today was one of those latter days. But mostly, he wanted to be asleep because he knew he was the one who was stalling their departure.

Not entirely stalling. He had almost paid a price for his hesitations at High Bridge and he wasn't keen to pay it again. It was reasonable to stay this long in case his aunt returned, if another message came, if the Clayr had seen anything else.

And in this instance, he needed to wait and watch and research. 

The kind of Free Magic he had witnessed at High Bridge wasn't the simple kind, put to use by the inexperienced necromancer or the novice Free Magic sorcerer. It was power; it was strength; it was talent. It had to be someone specific, someone who had a name and an identity… but there was no one he could currently think of with that kind of prowess, no one mentioned in his aunt's writings, or even in that of his predecessors, as he grew steadily more desperate. 

The most he found were passing mentions to witnessed spells of that calibre, of rumours and myths; the names of Greater Dead and necromancers capable of casting them were individuals long since passed through the Ninth Gate, or sealed away. The tomes themselves were obsolete, unhelpful, but he had carted them up to the observatory and locked the door. Just in case. These were old tales, dangerous tales, but he did not wish to invite the collective ill will of those long Dead unnecessarily. In the observatory, he could see the sky. He could see life.

It was also a measure to prevent intruders or guests touching or reading them whilst he poured over them, skipping from one to another, because with these books, it wasn't just a matter of reading them. They could not be closed unless you were uncorrupted; unless you were of the proper blood. There were Charter marks and Free Magic in their spines. They knew.

Terciel was in the observatory now, sans books, watching the skyline. No stray Paperwing. No sign of a Message Hawk. Just the sun, rising and falling and chased away by the moon, as it had for the past five days. He would have to make a decision in the next few hours – stay or go. No more stalling. And if he went, how would he get there? Where would he start from? Should they make a loud entrance? A quiet one?

Somewhere in those choices, there was the right one. The path that led to the least destruction, the path with least lives lost… the path with the most preferred outcome. But Charter knew he couldn't see it, not with so many threads wrapped aimlessly around each other, spiralling away into possibilities, small and grand. Too many futures all at once, all possible, and only some would be eliminated when he made the choice; some would not come into play until he did.

Terciel did not envy the Clayr.

And it would be much easier if the Abhorsen herself could decide. But her path was away from here, and her own. His had always been different, right from the day she had instructed him to choose, had deliberately separated them. 

He had to start accepting that they would not walk the same path forever… if ever they had to start with.

Sleep would be an excellent avoidance. 

As well as watching the sky, he was also inspecting his arm. He performed his simple exercises here partly because he wouldn't be disturbed, away from prying eyes, and he felt most connected to the world around him. He liked to recover alone, in the safety of the House, his home, even if he was always honest about where he was going and what he was doing if someone asked.

Time to reflect and time to think were both early lessons that his aunt had given him.

Terciel flexed his fingers and there was little to no pain. His wrist looked several months healed, not days, and he could barely feel the strain in his muscle as he moved his hand and forearm this way and that. It was recuperating well, and was almost back to normal. His hand couldn't withstand a lot of weight without giving out, a spasm siphoning his strength, but he could pick up a book and that didn't hurt, and he could hold and ring the smaller of the Bells, which only hurt a little. 

As he idly poured fragmented Charter marks into his wrist to encourage the other spells he'd already lain against the wound, he wondered how Nerysiel was doing. He was as ready as he ever would be, physically and mentally, but was she?

Charter, was dragging her into all this, into his reality, really the right thing to do? 

But that was a decision he had made in a moment, and it wasn't one that he felt regret for. But he worried. They spoke a few times a day, sometimes short, sometimes long, never in the same place or the same time, and she always seemed to be awake. Like his wrist, he didn't want to prod where he wasn't welcome, even if the secrets between them were thin on the ground. She did not have to explain for him to understand her grief, her need for time; he had been there himself. There were a few things that would always be off-limits to the both of them.

But he did have one secret he was deliberately keeping from her, though. Just one. 

The almost kiss.

She hadn't spoken of it. Neither had he, following her lead. At first he wondered if it had been the pain leading him on, the situation leading to a moment that had long passed them by. But though the moment had indeed long passed, he still thought about it frequently.

His secret was that he would like to kiss her.

He thought he was past this sort of boyish fawning. 

Evidently he wasn't.

All other thoughts, he stopped dead in the water; thoughts of infatuation and entertainment at her reciprocation, of the two of them together. All of them were struck down, one by one. But the kiss had been an almost, and it wouldn't go away of its own accord. And because he wanted to kiss her, he inevitably thought about the rest, intensely, repeatedly. Sometimes he thought about presenting her with a gift. Not a kiss, though that would be nice, but a gift, a physical, tangible thing. Something she would use, would want. A gift before they departed to Belisaere.

Maybe then he could let it be. He cared for her as a friend, and always would. Any further and… no, no he couldn't even think or daydream of anything beyond a kiss. It unearthed memories that were best kept where they were, with the Dead.

Abruptly, his stomach growled at the same time the gong in the kitchens reverberated up and down the walls of the House.

A path that this time, he would take willingly.

\- - - -

To his surprise – and his stomach's contempt – the dining room was not laid out full to bursting. 

In fact, there was nothing and no one there at all. It was the most terrible of terrible tricks, to be lured by the prospect of food and to instead find nothing. Not inedible food, not food you didn't like, but _nothing_.

But this House was run by Sendings, so it was rather strange. Terciel belatedly noticed the silver objects on the table that had to be knives and forks with a napkin for each. One for him, one for Nerysiel, and another one for Mogget: Mogget's napkin was far from clean, and there was no cutlery to go with it. 

So where, oh where, was the food? And the Sendings? And the other two dwellers of the household that had also been invited to dinner? He was never the first one here. Never!

He heard a clatter from the kitchen door of something being dropped onto stone, and someone cursing, and then a hiss, followed by bickering. A Sending shot out from the corridor behind him, ducked past him – bowing twice – and stormed into the kitchen, followed by two more who were carrying a mop and a bucket of still steaming sulphur water.

That was also odd. And a little amusing, were it not for the apprehension that came coupled with the mystery.

Tentatively, completely unknowing of just what he'd find in occupancy, Terciel shuffled to the door and bravely peeked around the corner of the hinge.

There were a cluster of Sendings, including the mop and bucket Sending, busy scrubbing the floor from some sort of earlier spillage. From the smell, and the glass shards that had been brushed into one corner, it was – as bizarre as the thought was – a collision of wine bottles and glasses, their contents splashed all over the floor. 

However, that was not the source of the more recent noise. That noise was coming from an open cupboard a few paces above the kitchen counter, where Nerysiel was retrieving plates.

Also the stove was invisible under the amount of smoke, but much more important were Nerysiel's limber legs at eye level as she fussed around the highest shelf she could possibly find for plates. Mogget was padding around Nerysiel's knees in annoyance on the countertop, and the argument was, predictably, about why she couldn't just use something that was in a more accessible cupboard, and what was wrong with marble and patterns, why can't you just accept this is what I want to use, why are you so pretentious, why is everything the size of boats?

Out of the two, Mogget was was the only one who responded to Terciel's reluctant entry, because he was the only one who had the advantage of being able to actually see him. He shot the Abhorsen-in-Waiting a look that could mean a whole number of things, but those things could be summed up into an adequate _now look what you did_.

Terciel felt a little offended, given that all he had done in this situation was bring Nerysiel into the house and he had certainly not given her free reign of the kitchen. But that was probably the point. No Nerysiel, no disturbance.

She'd already fished out two small plates, ancient looking and not identical, which was the actual source of the clatter he'd heard in the dining room, because she'd been less than delicate with such finery and the Sendings were getting jittery.

The Sendings were however reluctant to interrupt her rifling, he noted. They were letting her do as she pleased; even if that meant deconstructing their impeccably organised kitchen.

The Sendings _never_ let anyone disrupt their set tasks. When had they ever not interrupted? He knew it all too well. But they were refusing to intervene, even if they hovered about with items that might help or ones that they would suggest, if only they had means of speech. But they did not insist.

Now he was a little bit jealous, even as he marvelled at it. It wasn't fear that they exhibited; instead, they were treating her exceptionally, with deep respect. He tried to remember back to other visitors over the years, but most were Clayr, officials, the same sort of faces, over and over. The newest face, the outlier, was Nerysiel. But surely, they would treat her just the same as any other guest… which was why they were bringing their suggestions and waiting in case they were called forward, but… that didn't explain the authority she had over them, which had until now gone unnoticed.

A strange thing to ponder, for some other time. 

It was all so silly, so ordinary, that he couldn't resist it, and Terciel laughed. A short laugh, but jovial, full of relief, and one that brought tears to his eyes: a laugh that was thankful that moments like this could still exist with all that loomed imminently on the horizon.

Nerysiel noticed him then. She had noticed seconds before, made aware due to Mogget's silence, and all the eyes and not-eyes that were trained on the doorframe and there was only one individual that could command it, and only one other person in the House anyway. Even before she finished closing the cupboard with two more retrieved plates (also not matching) she smiled, sheepishly. 

But she needn't have done so. The man at the door was different than the one she knew, because he seemed younger somehow, more at ease, bright and lively. Capable of innocence, and life. It was nice to see it; nice to see him relax and smile, out of words for what he'd just stumbled on.

"Good afternoon, Terciel," she said cheerfully. "Lunch?"

Terciel's smile twitched again.

Well, alright then.

"Yes, that sounds nice." Terciel stepped into the room with a nod, hands sliding behind his back as he surveyed the scene, as if it were totally normal. Mogget looked at him flabbergasted, then tutted, rolling his eyes as he clambered down from the counter. "What's on the menu?"

"Rabbit, smoked over wood with rosemary. Bread and soup. Bird for Mogget, lightly cooked."

"Ruined," Mogget muttered.

"And wine that the Sendings selected," Nerysiel continued, ignoring him. "Their third choice, due to the, um, accident," she gestured to the wine-stained floor. "And hopefully," she eyed the group of Sendings, who all shied away guiltily like schoolchildren, "Nobody has prepared anything else to go with it as accompaniment, as I specifically asked them not to."

She hopped down from the counter to the floor and doused the fire on the stove, tufts of smoke rising haphazardly across the room and out into the garden thanks to the quickly opened door, courtesy of shadowy hands. Terciel inspected his lunch, with a quirked eyebrow. It was certainly different, but it didn't look unappetising.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, you can sit."

"I really don't mind."

"Sit," Nerysiel repeated, passing him a plate with bread that wasn't exactly sliced but in chunks, the only thing she hadn't made herself. "I insist." There was no butter to go with it, but that was probably what the stew soup thing on the stove was for. Was the rabbit going in there? He had so many unanswered questions. How many more mysteries would spring up if he left the room?

"Very well," Terciel frowned, uncertain, but he backtracked out of the kitchen with Mogget at his heels. 

Terciel took his usual seat to the right of the Abhorsen's chair, with Nerysiel presumably opposite, and Mogget next to her. He placed the bread in the middle, pulled back his chair, sat down, and waited.

Across the table, Mogget slumped.

"How wonderful of her to send the Sendings into such a state," Terciel mused, echoing his aunt's favoured position of waiting, with his elbows propped up on the table and his head resting atop his hands. His eyes sparkled with his amusement. "I suppose I shouldn't ask who helped her to find the rabbits?"

"No, you shouldn't," Mogget moped. Then he added, coyly, "I suppose it's too late to send her away from you. Is it not?"

Terciel knew what he was getting at. The cat, sometimes man, sometimes cat, was, if nothing else, perceptive. But he simply smiled his evasive, quiet smile, and shook his head.

Mogget didn't have time to inquire as to anything else, for then, lunch was finally served.


	16. The Gift

It was hardly the most lavish meal Terciel had ever eaten, but it was satisfying. 

Hunks of bread to mop up the soup soaked with bone for stock, and the rabbit, tender and lean, was skinned to perfection. It had looked a little small on such a large and long table, particularly as the Sendings were in the habit of over zealously preparing meals that could likely feed an army, let alone two people and their live-in servant who ate only for leisure, not because he needed to.

It was just different from what he was used to, that was all. 

And it was only when Nerysiel was seated and he had started with a hefty piece of bread that his stomach gurgled and he realised he was ravenous, as though, regardless of his proximity to a working kitchen, he hadn't eaten properly the past week: which he hadn't. He had been too distracted, or had simply forgotten, heading to bed because it was late and his eyes had given out but his stomach wasn't making vocal demands so sustenance never occurred to him. He hadn't thought much about food beyond snacking, skimming from the Sending's prepared four courses when he felt he had to put in an appearance for his guest, for his friend.

This meal was a good kind of different.

The three of them ate in companionable silence. 

Despite all of his protests over the preparation of lunch, Mogget – who was back in his albino-dwarf form – was tenderly shearing strips of meat from the bird and tossing them into his mouth. He might have had sulked the whole time in the kitchen, and made his complaints known, but he didn't dislike his 'ruined food' enough to stop eating it. 

Terciel ate heartily with his hunger reawakened, thoughts kept at arm's-length. Once they'd eaten, he knew he could no longer delay. It would be time to make their plans, with all of them gathered together like this. This meal was his final moment of respite before he turned to business.

Nerysiel was slower, savouring the taste of every bite, her eyes usually closed as she thought about her village and all the people she had lost.

She had never found out if she had indeed seen Moscal or not in the city, so it was possible it was not quite everyone. In the haze of a week's worth of mourning, the thought hadn't really occurred to her until it was too late to do much about it; she was out of reach, miles and leagues away. She could return alone and seek survivors out, and see if any others had made their way to High Bridge… but that was reopening a wound she was not sure she was ready for. It might have all been a figment of her imagination, and it was a despairing hope: she could send a message, but where would she send it? Who would even take it? She was going further from home, not closer.

She knew in her heart that any survivors of her village would not linger in High Bridge. They would seek new forests, new homes, together with others likeminded. Her heart pattered with the thought of joining them, a wayward bird called back to its nest, but that would mean leaving Terciel behind, and that pull to remain with him was stronger.

She said she would help, and she had meant it. She still did, even now, knowing the truth.

All too soon the meal was polished, plates empty and in Mogget's case, glossed over by a tiny pink tongue that seemed to be a permanent fixture in spite of his changed form. Another constant was his need to groom: and his obsessive need for cleanliness, for he started stroking through his beard for bits of bone that he'd spat out.

Terciel waved the Sendings over, who delightedly collected the plates, going double time to the kitchen: Nerysiel had to wonder if they would throw the plates out rather than cleaning them so she could not use such ill-matched crockery again.

As they departed, Terciel asked another Sending for the maps from the study, paper and quill and ink, and for tea.

The tea arrived first, hot and steaming in the china teapot. The Sendings left behind three cups, but didn't pour, leaving that up to Terciel's discretion… but he didn't move to do so, instead leaning back in his chair, biting his lip. Waiting.

Then the maps arrived, the writing things. The last few Sendings bowed and left. Time ticked by. Mogget rubbed a finger vigorously against one of his teeth with a squeaking sound, possibly tired of waiting around, possibly trying to remove a stubborn bloodstain.

Terciel and Nerysiel merely looked at each other across the table, nervous in the moment that had at last arrived; both of them stalled, waiting for the other to speak, but neither of them were overly willing nor prepared to pierce the normality that had settled over the House with Nerysiel's meal. A meal that had done more to heal and mend them than anything else ever could.

But they had to, eventually. And one of them was the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and in the absence of the actual Abhorsen, he was as good as in charge. This was his responsibility.

Terciel exhaled. Nerysiel did the same. They smiled at one another, eyes communicating what they weren't able to with words.

Terciel stood, moving several seats along to where his requested items had been placed. Nerysiel followed, crossing the shadow of the Abhorsen's high backed chair and coming to stand alongside him with the intention of sitting at his side, instead of across from him.

Mogget didn't request to move. He simply appeared in his new chair in the fraction of a second that no eyes had been upon him, still fishing through his teeth.

"May I?" Nerysiel asked, indicating her intended seat.

"By all means," Terciel smiled, gently. He pulled her seat back before taking his own.

He knew it was so they could look at the map of Belisaere better together, but it was a somewhat intimate feeling that passed between them, even if they weren't close to touching, paces apart. An awkwardness. He couldn't put his finger on it.

He thought about the almost kiss.

He forced himself to forget about the almost kiss.

"I had hoped I would have received word by now from either the Abhorsen or the Clayr, but it's quite apparent that, after all this time, it's not to be," he began.

"Quite apparent indeed," Mogget agreed. Terciel elected not to examine the man's tone in the name of further progress and planning.

Terciel continued. "I have tried, unsuccessfully, for our past five days here, to come up with a plan. But it's not the plan itself that is eluding me. It is _which_. This future we walk to is written, and we already know where the three of us must do. Yet we also don't, with so many variables, choices to make…"

Terciel turned towards Nerysiel alone, tilting his head inquisitively to one side. It was a childish expression, but it also one he had learned from her. "… Nerysiel. I know we've been through this. Your counsel is all I ask for, even if you wish to stand at my side. And I would be a fool to decline that offer, with so little assistance as there is on offer. 

"But I want to be sure this is what you want. I want _you_ to be certain that this is what you want. Once we leave these walls, once the regency begins its descent, once we confront it, there will be no going back. This path is one that must be followed through to its end, whatever that may be."

What did you do with knowledge?

Nerysiel didn't have much to consider.

"Ah," her eyes were fire. "But it does not matter wherever I am, does it? Be it here or with you, or elsewhere, there will be no going back for the Old Kingdom. Do I run and hide and remain in forced ignorance because it easier? I've seen enough of that. I've seen what it does. This is a destination I must travel to, with full acknowledgement of where it might lead. I will assist you, wherever you lead us, Terciel."

"Are you certain?" he repeated, but he didn't doubt the strength of her will that was reflecting in her eyes. Nerysiel understood the gravity of it all; this was not her being foolhardy. She was incredibly wise and fearless. This was the right thing to do, as she helped him before, even before she knew what it was that he truly wanted her help with.

"I am," she echoed. "You cannot do this alone, my friend. Our feet have long since been set on this path."

She was right, more than she truly knew. This was knowledge observed and absorbed, rather than learned from written word and foretelling. He'd seen her attempts at reading the less complex of the House's books and had known that it was beyond her, even if she hadn't told him: for pride or for shame or because he had not asked. Maybe once this was over, he could help her to learn. It was the very least he could do.

But he was getting ahead of himself. Before all that, there would be the fall.

Terciel gestured to the three of them. "Then we are in agreement to go together." 

Nerysiel nodded, still fierce. 

Mogget gave him the stink-eye at being forcibly included without all of his consent, but the miniature Saraneth was the one to affirm that he had to. It was not often that many Abhorsens considered him a member of their party at all, or even acknowledged his assistance, so he stayed silent. 

Terciel spoke again. "The Clayr – the, ah, seers of the Glacier – knew that events leading to the end of the regency would occur soon, but nothing about their rapidity. I suggested to the Abhorsen at the time that I did not think the fall – which has been happening for decades, in small ways – would begin in Belisaere, and I was correct in that thinking. But unfortunately, not enough to prevent it. No matter what we do, we must be prepared for the eventuality that we will fail in saving the Regent and the remnants of the Royal line."

It was the first time he had admitted it aloud. He didn't like it, but it was time to face the probability that there would be no rescue, no reinstallation, and that there would only be containment.

On the surface, Nerysiel didn't seem to be sharing those some feelings of dread, confused. "Is it that imperative for there to be a regent? I understand it is important, and yet, the people – or High Bridge, Chasel, what places I have closest seen to where I lived – largely governed for themselves. Yes, there would be lawlessness, but there is enough of that already. Adaptation would happen, eventually. And we have been without a monarch for so long, no one remembers anything different."

"This is why we don't involve citizens. Too weak in the Charter, all of you," chastised Mogget, rolling his eyes. "They just don't understand the importance of the Charter and the Bloodlines."

Terciel said nothing to Mogget's rebuke. Nerysiel's assessment was fair, given that she was not informed as to why it would be so terrible. But how best to explain it?

He contemplated. "There's a rhyme," he said, after some thought. "One that children like to sing. Do you remember it?"

He didn't ask if she knew it or not, as it was impossible not to know exactly what he meant. "Yes."

She didn't elaborate, not because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't. 

_Five Great Charters, knit the land, together linked, hand in hand…_

There was a reason why only children sang that rhyme, because adults could not. Some could say pieces, if they were not Charter mages and disconnected from the ever present flow, but she was a Charter Mage, however remedial, and it wasn't a matter of effort. She just couldn't say it, and that was accepted.

"That rhyme has a great deal of truth to it, about the Charter, our world. That we can't speak of it, reflects the state of us. But the Charter is not only part of itself: it is in other things. Bloodlines, for instance. There were three – the Royal line, the Abhorsens, the Clayr. Now there are two."

"And you see," Mogget added, forthcoming only because Nerysiel's cluelessness amused him, "the Charter cannot survive without one of those things. A square peg for a circular void! A Regent is far from the right shape for that particular hole."

Terciel nodded, humming in agreement. "It helps," he said strongly. "It keeps. But the interregnum has lasted for so long, that it itself has become the norm, as you say. And it shouldn't be."

Nerysiel processed this, drumming her fingers on the edge of the table. It was a lot to wrap her head around. "And without the regency there would be nothing to fill that space and… the Charter would suffer? It suffers already?"

Terciel nodded. "A great deal. Two hundred years is a very long time, especially with hardship. The Old Kingdom is far from peacetime, its royal line presumably lost, its Charter Stones broken, and its Dead that walk freely… all without mentioning the regency that is to be lost. The Charter would not only suffer. It would be dealt a terrible blow."

"Not would," Nerysiel corrected, sadly. The path to the fall was inevitable. It would happen. "Will."

"Yes," Terciel concurred. He sighed. "Will."

If only everything was no so interconnected. But she knew Terciel was telling her the truth; knew it evidenced in the life she had lived, from the strain and sickness she had felt near any broken Charter Stone. The Charter itself was ill and wounded, and there were nothing, no thread of any kind, to stitch it back together.

"And therein lies your difficulty to choose in where to focus," Nerysiel deduced, correctly. Terciel smiled, briefly, at her having guessed correctly – or her having simply worked it out with the information presented. Indeed, what else would happen in the fallout? That was the kind of burden – knowing that you would fail, that there was no way to succeed, but you also had a choice in how much more the world slipped in the process – that would destroy lesser individuals.

"There are some things we can account for. We must assume that the Abhorsen has failed in persuading the Regent to believe the threat to himself and his role. We must also assume that Belisaere knows about High Bridge and what occurred thereafter. Whoever drove the attack was powerful – powerful enough to cast that strong a Free Magic, to raise that many Dead, to control as many people as they did, all from a distance. With Belisaere as the target, I imagine they will be closer to the city than they were at High Bridge."

"We will be better prepared for them," Nerysiel said confidently. 

"We may still not fight them," Terciel warned, shaking his head. "We have to focus on the transition: with the regency, to without. Remember the Charter. It is at the centre of all this and it is likely the reason the fall is being orchestrated now, with some greater goal in mind."

Greater than merely damaging the Charter?

"That's a frightening thought." Nerysiel's reply was honest, and though alarmed, she herself did not seem scared by such a prospect. But then, all this was very new to her; yet even so, it was wrong, to have the Charter challenged so much, that it made her shiver all the same.

"That it is." His agreement in turn, was gentle. He was very good at reassurance, even in the face of such potential disaster. "But it does not make it any less real a possibility."

Nerysiel restrained her tapping fingers, and leaned over the map, brushing away stray hair out of her eyes. Sights and landmarks meant nothing to her, but there was a logic to how the city was laid out on the paper. Larger plots of land were inked by larger empty spaces, which meant that the location of the palace, where the Regent waited for a returning monarch, was… there, towards its eastern edge, nearest to the sea. Empty space, for gardens and hills; but spanning around it in a half-spiral, indicated by densely packed sprawling lines, were streets. 

Streets that could hide necromancers, the Dead, sorcerers… or unwilling pawns under the thrall of one of the above. Or perhaps nothing hid there at all.

She had to wonder. Perhaps they were too focused on the unnatural, as Terciel had to do. If it were her, a hunter, a surgeon, a skinner, looking into this alone, she would think of the people. Scared, frightened people were capable of terrible things. Or even not so terrible; in their fear, they were less restricted by social norms and graces. More vocal. More…

"These streets, here," she pointed to them. "Are they densely populated?"

"They are," Terciel nodded, looking to where she indicated. He hadn't faltered at the suddeness of her change of thought. "This inner ring of aqueducts – here – is the most popular of places, thanks to the barrier of running water. Belisaere is smaller than it used to be. This map is accurate, but it isn't accurate as to the pockets of space that have been abandoned, or should have been." Terciel pointed them out, small circles outside the aqueduct ring, far from walls or watchtowers. Nerysiel didn't have to ask why they were. "Some are still used, however infrequently: the harbour, for instance, is only occupied in daylight hours. But the roads up to the Palace Hill are as equally sought after since there is some upkeep to them, and the remainder of the guard is stationed there."

Nerysiel nodded. He had told her more than she needed, but it was enough to affirm what she had to say. "There is another force that can overcome the regent. These people."

Terciel raised an eyebrow, the thought too abstract for him to jump on board with just yet. He was not dismissing it, not out right, but he simply wasn't able to see her thought's potential, for the strength of a unified people with a common cause.

Nerysiel sighed, equal parts exasperated as well as urgent. He had to believe her. This might just be it.

"High Bridge and its witnesses' saw that there was something terribly wrong with the Old Kingdom," she urged. "When we are unable to pretend something is not happening, we turn to blame. We like to blame someone; we need it. If enough people blamed the regent for what has happened, for all those people lost – they would also think. Of what little we do remember of how things used to be, they would realise that with each year there is less food and more Dead, and he lives is that large palace, parading above them. What would they do? Would they seek him out? Would they protest?"

Now Terciel was considering it. He was staring at the map as if it would confirm Nerysiel's thought. But he only said one word in reply. "Cover."

That in turn stumped her. "Cover…?"

"If you were right, it would be a perfect distraction: for any and all variables. Be it Dead or Free Magic or both. The crowd would take them all right along with them." 

Terciel poured over the map as he had done many times in recent days. Until now, he had missed that detail that the people could be involved, likely because, try as he might to protect them, he was forever doomed to be disconnected from his charges. That they could rally themselves from the closest houses…

Too much to decide, even now. Too many choices.

Mogget fidgeted, looking between the two opposite him, back and forth, back and forth, each one wallowing in their own thoughts and what-ifs. 

"We can speculate for days and weeks or years, but nothing will come of it," the albino prompted. He looked pointedly at Terciel. "The someone in charge of this miserable excursion that I had no choice in joining has only one thing he has to decide right now. When do you leave?"

He could say tomorrow. 

He didn't.

"Now. We'll drink the tea, I'll write the letters that need to be done… and then, we'll go by Paperwing."

\- - - -

Either the Sendings had known before he did, or they really were just that talented. 

As soon as he decided – finally, _finally_ decided, and it lifted some of the weight that had settled over him – the packs appeared, his own and a new one for Nerysiel, both already stuffed to the brim. The Sendings fetched more things from the kitchen, more things from storage, cantered about on the ceiling as they procured clean armour and clean swords and books and anything else they could think of, taking everything to the respective bedroom where its occupants would dress to depart.

Terciel and Nerysiel both drank their tea too quickly, and even if it had had too much time to steep, it still scalded their mouths. Everything was suddenly a hurry. 

The week long isolation and imprisonment and safety were over, and it brought Nerysiel a volatile mix of emotions. For all her longing to be doing something, when they left, it would be to see their path through to the end; there would be no time to rest or stop and reflect. They would go into this headlong and come out of it changed. Everything would change, and how was still a mystery.

Terciel scribed his letters with a furious scrawl. He didn't have time for imprinted minds and their limits today; all of this had to be written, however laborious. A Sending hovered, taking a completed letter and folding it precisely, and then disappering to the mews. Then another letter went on its way. And another.

Terciel only spoke their intended destination when each was finished. 

The first letter was to the Clayr, to inform them of what had happened until now, and to inform them of the possibilities, that he hoped to see these events through intact and would speak with them again when he hopefully did. 

The second was to the regent, and to his aunt, with a warning. 

The third was a message to the Wall, to the borderlands with Ancelstairre. It would not be sent until after whatever was to happen would, because their involvement would be too late, would be certain suicide. But whatever came, they had to be forewarned, and there was no time to attend himself.

The fourth was instructions that would hopefully be carried to whatever guard stations remained, institutions the Abhorsens held some sway over. But he doubted much would come of it, if anything. Most of them were similar warnings to what he had penned to the Ancelestairre's Perimeter, to expect the worst.

The fifth was not to leave the House, but to be delivered to the Abhorsen if she returned before they did. It vanished to her rooms.

The last was the only one he did not announce, and he didn't pass it to the Sending waiting expectantly, itching for speed, speed that would take it across the House and to the Message Hawks. Instead, he gave the last letter to Mogget.

Mogget raised an eyebrow. "I don't deliver messages."

"I'm not asking," Terciel replied. "It's for you. Should the worst come to pass, only then should your read it."

Nerysiel wondered what the very worst could be, but Mogget understood, even if she didn't. 

He nodded, and the paper disappeared into his clothing. Terciel watched him, as if debating whether Mogget would follow through with the command to wait. 

Satisfied, he then gave the remaining writing equipment to the final Sending and stood, announcing that he would meet them both in the Paperwing hangar. 

Until he remembered that Nerysiel had no idea where the hangar was and corrected himself, saying he would meet them at the house's entrance instead. Then he disappeared to his rooms. 

\- - - -

Nerysiel groaned as she opened the door to her own borrowed room.

The experience at lunch had not deterred the Sendings of their suggestions, for, despite being notably absent, they had covered her bed from top to bottom in pieces of mismatched armour of varying quality. Swords were propped up against the tub in the corner with at least ten different belts and twenty buckles. Several bows were also strewn across the carpet, and interspersed them were daggers in their holders.

The one thing they didn't have a suggestion for was her hunting leathers, but she noticed they smelt faintly of lavender and had been cleaned. They felt smoother, somehow, which ruined their good deed: they didn't feel like they were hers.

But she still put them on.

Deciding what else to wear with it was a little more difficult. Fortunately, sensing an attire crisis, a designated Sending slipped in as she finished fastening her jerkin together, on hand to assist with decision making. 

Nerysiel hadn't worn armour before, neither having the coin or the need for it, and though the armour on display was of lower grade compared to Terciel's – gethre, he had called it – it was similar, and just as light. It was merely the matter of piecing it together so that she could still lift a bow. _Her_ bow, because that was something else she wasn't willing to part with, despite the arguably better ones at her feet. She kept her small dagger as well, which had a new home in a compartment on her wrist piece. She added chainmail similar to the gethre over the leather, armour over the top of that… 

She felt as though she were suiting up for war.

In a way, they were. A civil war, brought about by the end of something that should never end.

Lastly, Nerysiel chose another dagger, several inches shorter than a sword, and lighter. It would be easy to wield with its brother should the need arise. She buckled it to her waist. She carried on assembling herself until she and the Sending were satisfied.

She looked around the room. Beyond the endless options for her departure, there was also something else she had neglected to wear. The dress that had been picked out by the Sendings days before hung over the vanity in the corner, forgotten and somehow sad. Somehow wanting.

Then she put on her old, falling apart boots, newly repaired, and walked out the door.

\- - - -

Terciel was barely present for his own attire change. His hands went through the motions, familiar as well as practiced, and when he reached for something he wanted next further than his perceived distance, a Sending would pass it to him.

His thoughts dwelled elsewhere, but most of them took place in this very room. 

Shadows overlaid themselves upon the light blinking in through open windows, despite the chill that brought. He procured voices for the outlines, snatched and faded. He remembered. It ached.

There was a lot at stake. The stakes were there so that the things that he recollected would never happen to anyone else.

Would not happen to him again.

He was so full of many different doubts and questions that he felt over capacity, and he didn't feel much of anything after that. No ache. Just motions. His armour was going on. His surcoat was on his back, his sword was at his hip, and the bells thrummed over his chest. 

It was not a time to be Terciel. It was not a time to be an apprentice.

It was time to be an Abhorsen.

He touched each bell, one by one, and patted his armour down until he was satisfied.

He thanked the Sending, who bowed, very deeply. He knew them more as a force than as single entities, but this one stuck in his mind forever afterwards, because no Sending had ever bowed to him like that before.

It was a bow reserved for their true mistress or master.

He picked up the last few things the Sendings had not thought to pack for him, and walked out the door.

\- - - -

Terciel faltered when he saw Nerysiel stood in the doorway at the entrance to House. Light surrounded her, a perfect halo, and she was in deep in conversation with Mogget. There was a new dagger at her hip, mail draped over her shoulders and held in place by impenetrable armour, her hair combed back, eyes determined.

At this moment, she was the most beautiful he had ever seen her. Bar none. Beautiful and deadly both; confident.

She turned and smiled as he approached – or had approached, given that he had stopped mid-step, struck stationary by her appearance. Mogget shook his head at his current charge and sauntered away, down into the grounds and towards the hangar – and stopped half way across the lawn, distracted by an errant bird close enough for him to harass and maybe sneak a bite of the proper way, uncooked.

"You look- um, that is- you look- nice," Terciel managed once he remembered how to speak. 

Focused to flustered. No wonder Mogget had been unimpressed.

"I wouldn't have described been dressed to fight as nice," Nerysiel said bleakly, fussing with her greaves. "A gown, yes, but that's for the people who can afford that sort of thing. Leathers and capes perhaps, if made from certain types of animal skin. Those things are beautiful."

"No," Terciel assured her. "You look beautiful."

It left his mouth before he realised it. But given the rising volume in which he had been thinking it, he should not have been surprised that it would slip out eventually into his actual spoken words.

It took him a few seconds to realise the slip, and it was enough time for Nerysiel to flush deeply and to look at him, startled, unsuccessfully grasping about for a response. 

It was too late for him to take it back.

His own flush was worse when it came to him, given his pallor. 

_You look beautiful._ It could be taken that he was talking about her armour only, about what she wore, that it suited her. But they both knew it was more than that from their reactions, that he hadn't meant her attire. He had meant _her_.

Nerysiel was still casting about for something to say. But she only managed a quiet, disbelieving, unsure, ineloquent, "What?"

Now it was his turn to run a hand through his hair and try to think of anything else to say to help, to recover this downward situation, because he shouldn't have said it. 

Not that he didn't mean it, but, the look on her face, that it was something privately thought, that nothing would happen, that the regency was going to fall, and they had to fly in close quarters in the Paperwing together to Belisaere, and-

"Um," he stammered, equally eloquent. Well, this wasn't how he planned this conversation that would never ever occur going, or starting. 

He chose his next words carefully. "You're a very thoughtful, wonderful person, Nerysiel. And equally beautiful because of it. And I – you – I'm not quite certain how to say this-"

He looked about, clicking his tongue, running it over his lips, a bundle of nerves in a man shaped suit. Even now with so many indecisions, he did not want to frighten her. 

"What I mean to say is… I feel a connection to you, Nerysiel. I'm not sure yet what that is."

It was not a lie. 

But it was also not quite the truth.

And, just like that, he stopped. 

It was as much of an admission that he would allow himself.

Nerysiel waited, waited for him to say more. But he didn't. As the seconds passed, it became clear he wasn't going to.

She hadn't been privy to this situation herself, but it felt as though there were something missing, that he was avoiding saying anything decisive. He had been meaningful, certainly; but it was a declaration. Not askance. He was not looking for response or reciprocation of whatever he was skirting towards, then sprinted straight past. She hadn't really given much thought to the words in themselves, just that they were heading towards a point… a point that he immediately dropped, and dusted his hands clean.

But Terciel was not that kind of person. He was sensitive and deliberate. Calm. This was unexpected, a slip in their pretend. He had reacted with explanation because he had to say something… and he was not saying it to confuse her. He was saying it because he meant it and he would not push any of his conceptions onto her.

He said he felt a connection.

He was not the only one who had felt it. He was not the only one who sometimes looked at the other person's mouth and thought about the kiss that had almost been, but had never been mentioned since. She didn't think he had forgotten, just that he was tactful, respectful. If anything was not said, it was not a secret, but because the time wasn't right. 

The moment in the cellar at High Bridge had passed; it might not ever return.

Yet even now, with his eyes avoiding hers, stood on his doorstep, she felt that same resonance that had been there from the beginning. The bond that had only strengthened in the time they had spent together. She had lived. She had partly lived because he had asked. Not for him, not really, but to be at his side? Yes.

But in what way was that?

She wasn't certain herself. Every time she thought about it… she pushed it away. It was never the right time.

Now also wasn't the right time. She dithered about, almost hopping from one foot to another, trying to think of something to say, utterly blindsided.

Terciel watched her indecision, though he pretended not to be reading her every action, or lack thereof. Nothing was better than a negative. It was not as though he was saying that he loved her, because he wasn't sure of that himself. His feelings were a work in progress, just as he'd said. Or not said. But what his feelings meant, he wouldn't know; not for some time, some thought, some figuring out. 

In some ways, he hoped he never would.

Regardless, she would always remain beautiful. She would always be the sum of things that equalled the Nerysiel that he had come to care for a great deal. That would never change. Now it had been said, he would not take it back. She deserved to know he thought of her highly, in every fashion.

"Thank you," Nerysiel finally spoke, half-smiling: but the smile was banished away by the hopping, the reborn fluster, the need to look anywhere else. They had to go to Belisaere. That was imperative! There was a path that they needed to follow. "And thank you for being honest with me. I- I'm not sure what to say back, it's- what you said, is- is sudden."

"I apologise," he said, marginally bowing to give his impatient, nervous limbs something to do. "I didn't mean to confuse or even to-"

"No!" she interrupted, louder than she was intending it to be. It made both of them jump, and she coughed, gathering herself up. She was not a child, or a skulking teenager! She could handle her feelings, whatever they were, could look at a man she greatly trusted and respected. So she did. "No, I- for whatever it is worth, I am glad you did. You are right, that we are connected. Our threads are intertwined, and where that'll lead, we don't know yet. But going to Belisaere will be a start."

"That eager to leave the House?" he asked gently, with a wry smile.

"Very," she said, her own smile soft and fond. Of course he had noticed how not at home she had felt by being here, even if he hadn't said anything. "It's time to be doing, at last."

"Indeed," he agreed. "But first, I had something I wished to give you. Entirely unrelated to, ah, what we were talking about. A gift."

From anyone else, that would hardly seem like an unrelated matter. But this was a man forced into distancing himself and likely wanted to thank her with something more tangible than words, and so she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

But it was not the suddenness of an offered gift that perturbed her, that sent a jolt of indignation down her spine, making her bristle: it was that many gifts of sorts had already been attempted to be thrust upon her. Too many, and none that she could accept.

There was that dress she never wore, but she wasn't certain that was his instruction – the Sendings were clear believers in doing as they pleased based on patterned, collective thoughts and instinct. But there had been other gifts offered, over time: for her to take new weapons along with the armour, for so many new things that were better, and even if that were the wiser thing to do because it would make her safer, she knew her own gear well. It served her. Another bow would require time to get acquainted with, and they did not have a lot of time. Tomorrow she might have to use it for real. She could not afford that adjustment period.

Then there was her stubborn pride, the reason she had not worn the dress, or accepted his food on the road, or anything else that made her feel inferior. That was where the bristle came from, her ego rearing its head and making itself known, that it was unhappy knowing she was wanting for something more and could not acquire it for herself.

"That's very kind of you, Terciel-"

"Please accept it," he interrupted, raising his hand peaceably. "You are joining me on what I fear to be a fruitless endeavour. It may be pre-emptive, but what will happen to either of us after this one of the few things we do not know. Now might be the only opportunity."

She sighed. "I don't require a gift for my aid. I choose to go with you."

"I know." He sounded sombre. The now familiar, undecipherable look was back, this time with a small smile that she could describe as fondness. Either he was getting easier to read, or his smiles were very particular. "Please consider it."

"Is it small enough to bring along with us?"

"Yes."

"I will… consider it," she relented. "Then perhaps when we reach Belisaere, I will… _might_ … accept your offer, when I am tired and unclean and wanting of new clothes and things that I am unable to find for myself."

"That isn't wise," he observed. "Revealing the time when you are most vulnerable to random acts of kindness."

"I trust you will not tell anyone," she replied, patting the larger dagger at her waist. "And this does not mean that I will accept."

"We shall see," Terciel chuckled. "Now, to the Paperwing, and we will see to leaving the House."

He walked past her then, to stand in the doorway, where he ran his thumb over the grain of the wood of the door itself, placed a hand over the smoothness of the bricks where it met the wall. The House was more than home. It was family. Most of his life had been here, most that he remembered. He had lost and gained a lot of things in that house, and every time he left, it was a bitter parting.

But it passed, and he exhaled, casting away his worries to the errant breeze that blew through the out of season blossoms in the trees on the lawn, where Mogget still chased birds. 

"Let us go, Nerysiel."

Now was the time for doing, and indeed, they had much to do.


	17. Power

The Abhorsen paced across an antechamber of the royal palace: likely creating a welt in the floor for all the time she had spent doing so.

She did not like waiting, for waiting often allowed her enemies to get ahead of her. It was a different rule book that they played by, and even in times of emergency such as this she had been forced, with great frustration, to follow through with as many official channels as she could. 

She might have arrived into the city and barged into the castle without being invited – and had predictably, been denied – but she also had not left. Days later, she still had not left. 

Because she was the Abhorsen, a defender of the Old Kingdom from the Dead and necromancers and recognised as such, she was not mistreated, and had not been thrown out into the streets for her daily intrusions into the regency's private halls. Sometimes they were deep in conversation in the throne room, others, half asleep at their desks, but she kept coming back with the same six words to say:

"The regency is going to fall." 

Sometimes she might get a couple of sentences out before she was removed. Others, she left before the guards had the privilege. But it was clear. Her message was not being taken seriously, and the fact that the regent did not summon her after the first time she had done it, meant that they weren't going to.

Well, if that was how they wished to play it.

The first thing she did was send her Paperwing back to the House, a grand display in the palace grounds and a passing amazement to the cityfolk who watched the aircraft leave, but it told all within the castle one thing and one thing only:

That she was settling in to wait.

And so the Abhorsen persisted, waiting outside the throne room at all hours: every time the door opened, those on duty coughed and tried to avoid her piercing hawk-like eyes, unnerved by her continued presence. Which was good. It meant she was breaking the regent down. She would not give up, and he knew it.

The guards and castle staff were polite, at least at first. She had been given a room in which to sleep, and offered meals and kept at a cordial distance, sent a servant to bow and courtesy and attend to her needs, sent invitations to dinner with the counsel, every anticipation attended to and then some: all of it a token attempt to preserve the relationship the regency had with the Abhorsens. 

But it was also quite clear they wanted her out of the city. Each meal, for instance, was getting more and more tasteless and the meat and greens offered less than fresh; the invitations had all but evaporated, and the servant came only in the middle of the day when the Abhorsen was guaranteed to be out and about and pacing, so assistance was minimal. It was a clear show of disinterest in what she had to say: and a hope that, if they made her stay unbearable, she would call back her Paperwing or venture out into the markets, buy a horse and ride back home.

Clearly they had never truly met her on a personal level, for the Abhorsen was nothing short of tenacious.

There were two guards with her now in the antechamber, two she imagined had been assigned to her as they always managed to appear wherever she went. They, too, seemed about as fed up with her as she was with them. Both were young women, likely with significant others and families they were eager to spend time with, but instead, they were stuck parading around spears and accompanying old ladies. She had overhead their not so discreet murmurings of wonderment about when the next Dead incident would occur and the Abhorsen would be called away to deal with it, and they could go back to their lives.

It was a good thing she had an apprentice to see to those things, then: and unfortunate that the incident they half hoped for was more than likely to occur _inside_ city walls that they believed to be impenetrable. The Abhorsen had all the time in the world to wait, at least until the Clayr's Soon became the present.

She half expected the regent to never agree to see her, that she would only get to use an old entitled rite of joining a line of people with a cause to bring forward to the regent about some need or desire or want, which was largely how they ruled. Behind closed doors were the meetings and long-winded politics; the state of the economy, the state of the Kingdom, their borders to the north, foreign affairs with Ancelstierre when pressed; the glossed over discussion that their appointment was temporary and they should be searching for royalty to take their place. They did the minimum to keep the Old Kingdom aloft, but not much else. 

But that morning had been different, for she, the Abhorsen, had been summoned by the regent himself.

There had been whisperings, rumours, that a great, magical fire had sprung up just outside of High Bridge and destroyed two forests, ravaged the land, vaporised crops and livestock, and had also killed hundreds of people in the process. But with the early morning light there had been travellers on the road who did not only bear the rumours, but were also witnesses. They had seen it, brought word for the regency, riding up to the Palace Hill: and the horror had been confirmed. Understandably, the people of Belisaere were unhappy, scared, and fearful. 

There had to be a response. 

And, in the Abhorsen's case, clearly the regency had finally found some merit to her story because even they, stuck in their insular world, knew that a fire did not start and end of its own accord. It was a sign, a symbol of power, and they were ill-equipped to deal with it, even with the Charter mark on most of their brows. Fortunately for them and the regent himself, there was a woman who was pacing elsewhere in the castle, vying constantly for their attentions, ripe for dealing with this sort of mess.

The Abhorsen accepted the regent's invitation, but she also privately scorned it, scorned _him_ , that so many people had lost their lives for his complacency, that only now he summoned her because she could be used to his benefit. Terciel's beginnings had held true, as she had known they would, but that did not make so much loss easier to accept. She only hoped that her Abhorsen-in-Waiting was not taking the loss too greatly, not feeling that it was his fault. He felt so much very deeply, and was still young and hopeful. Those qualities were her favourites of his, but they could easily become his undoing.

She also hoped Mogget had upheld his end of the bargain, and that the Clayr had seen something beyond the fall that was to come. But she had no real way of knowing; her task was to wait for the foolish man held aloft by power that was not rightfully his to meet her.

Another individual appeared in the antechamber – finally, she thought – one that was dressed for show of wealth rather than defensive means, but he was also no errand boy, being a man of similar age to herself. A scribe or sacrificial lamb, it was difficult to determine by sight. He bowed low, a show of respect that seemed to be genuine, and indicated the curved corridor in which he had appeared.

"The regent will see you now."

"At last," the Abhorsen replied, making no attempt to hide her contempt. The scribe's expression didn't change, but his lips did twitch at the outer edges, cracking wrinkled skin.

He led, and she followed behind. Her assigned guards made no move to follow. Instead, they had vanished through a side door before the hall was out of the Abhorsen's sight, eager for other things. The unrest would clearly never affect them. How foolish they were, how foolish all of them were! It was there, right around the bend like the corridor she walked through now, and they refused to see it or to even entertain it.

Charter willing, she would make some progress that afternoon.

Her scribe guide continued up several flights of stairs until they came to a large room, with a larger wall of glass at the opposite end, a terrible expense held onto from when the palace had been occupied by royals and not pretenders. Or not made by royals, but Wallmakers, and it had been built to last, and last it had… even helped along by hands who happened to like the view.

The entirety of Belisaere could be seen from the window, and this high up, the castle grounds were far away: people were dotted throughout, ant like, scurrying to and fro about their business. But equally as much, it was so high that anyone peering up to the room, if they could locate it, would not be able to see its goings on. 

Which was fortunate, for whatever purpose this room had once served, its function had long changed to playing host to the meetings held by the regency, where they went when they were not seeing to the court and the populace. 

There was a round table in the centre of the room, a good blockade, since it could sit perhaps two dozen people. On the opposite side of the table were four individuals: two guards, one a man and the other a woman, both in their prime, who looked as if they knew how to pick a fight, and also knew how to fight with the weapons they were holding; a young woman, dressed in the regency's robes but not the regent herself; and the regent, a man several years the Abhorsen's junior whom she knew, passingly.

But she had been witness to his entire rule, if it could be called that. She was there when he was instated. The Regent knew this, and in her direct presence to his just as direct summoning, it was difficult to continue only seeing her as a pest to the peace he had attempted to maintain, because he was much more afraid of her personally than he truly was letting on. Once he might have sought out the Abhorsens for advice, but now, with so much time in power, he knew better. He did not need her thoughts and opinions and prophecy.

Until he felt that he did, presented with no other option earlier that very day. She was dressed as the Regent remembered the Abhorsens to dress, ready for battle, and that did nothing to quell his anxieties, anxieties that she would stain and ruin the throne in which he kept.

The Abhorsen, for her part, remembered the Regent as promising, but knew him now as arrogant and complacent. His closest, his second in command, was the woman, whom she didn't recall – and the woman didn't regard her at all, more interested in watching the distant city whilst sitting in an uncomfortable twist. Either, impossibly, she didn't know who the Abhorsen was, or more likely just did not care and was unimpressed with having to tailor to the babblings of a madwoman who fought the Dead, which was hardly a civilised thing to do.

Diplomacy and politics. Oh, it was a chore, when the people at the table were like this.

At least the scribe continued to be respectful, announcing her to the seated group, who didn't rise. "The Abhorsen," he said proudly, as if it were a great honour for him to be the one to name her to his gathered fellows.

"Tidings, Abhorsen," the Regent quipped, but his arms were folded and he looked unsettled, and ragged. He hadn't slept for several days following the aftermath of the attack at High Bridge. The woman to his left uttered something, reluctantly turning away from her people watching, but the words themselves were undecipherable.

"Ill-tidings, I'm afraid," the Abhorsen said. Despite what she said, she did not sound sympathetic. She also did not bother to sit when the scribe pulled out a chair opposite to the massed group, and he hurried along after her as she made her way round the table and stood to the right of the guards, resting her hand against the wooden surface as she leaned forward. She was just out of reach of the guards' spears, but close enough for them to see in her expression that she was not here to make pleasantries.

Momentarily, the group was alarmed by her approach, but they settled just as quickly. The Regent shuffled uncomfortably as the Abhorsen began to rap her fingers against the table, impatient. He cleared his throat. "We are – I am – we must apologise for not attending to your news sooner."

"I doubt that very much," the Abhorsen replied, not missing a beat. "You did as much as you could to drive me out. No one likes to hear they will no longer be relevant. I take it you have heard of what has happened at High Bridge?"

The Regent's plans for this meeting were rapidly going askew. Flustered and thrown about like a ship in a storm, he tried his best to interrupt, to deny her claims, but she swiftly moved past each one and left him dawdling behind so he could only answer her final, trailing question. "Yes, the incident. Necromancers, we have heard. Your department-"

"It was dealt with," the Abhorsen interrupted him again. "Fortunately for the Old Kingdom, I am not the only Abhorsen to take it under its wing."

"Still, an Abhorsen-in-Waiting," replied the woman, revealing that she was, in fact, aware of the titles and what they meant. "Not the real article."

"As much real as any of us who carry the Old Kingdom," the Abhorsen declared. She was a proud woman, but equally so, she was proud of her apprentice. "He has had ten years at my side. He is as much an Abhorsen as I am. But that, dear lady, is not what we are here to debate. There is no debate for us to engage in. I have told you all, time and time again, that the regency will fall. You have kept me quiet, but I implore you all to see reason, to listen to what I have to say."

"How can you be so sure?" One of the guards, this time. She was eyeing the Abhorsen was scepticism, for she was someone well versed to threats and confident in her ability to repel them.

"The Clayr have Seen it."

"The Clayr!" scoffed the woman, tossing her hands in the air, her feelings clear on how ludicrous an explanation she thought that was. 

"But that is only confirmation of a fact," the Abhorsen boomed, drowning out the woman's display by commanding all attention back to herself. "None of us should have pretended that this would not be the end result. Two hundred years have passed-"

"And we have ruled, in that time, in the stead of a King or Queen," the Regent interrupted. His arrogance was returning, slowly overcoming his fear, bristling at what he deemed to be a coming insult to the system that had served them. "Two hundred years, Abhorsen! You and the Clayr jump to fear far too quickly. We are more than capable of overcoming whatever is on its way."

The Abhorsen didn't believe it. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him, peeling back the layers of fortitude the gathered group were exhibiting. Her next words were quiet, precise, and woven with warning. "Is that why the Clayr's Seen future has not changed?"

The guards glanced to each other, a nervous flicker of the eyes that might have been missed if one wasn't watching them. The scribe stuttered in his scribblings, a sentence turning to a blob of ink. The woman tittered, but it was with less bravado than before. The Regent was the only one not to react.

"Abhorsen," he said, slowly. "We will consider what you have said. We are grateful for the warning. But you hold no authority in this city. That was granted to us, not to you or your kin. Your welcome is overstayed."

The Abhorsen understood.

They had no real intention of listening to her, and had never believed her for a moment; what they wanted was for someone to deal with High Bridge, and she was a perfect tool. They cared only for themselves, and they would cling to their hold of power until it crumbled and the Old Kingdom was nothing more than a burnt corpse where the Dead roamed free and Free Magic ruled.

The Abhorsen was livid.

But the anger never passed her eyes. She was well practiced at stilling her emotions when they would inhibit her. The scribe looked alarmed at her suddenly been cast out and her acceptance, but she waved him away as he attempted to escort her out. There was far more grace, far more to be said, in her turning to leave without argument; and there was only one thing left for her to say, if they truly would not listen.

"Charter spare you all."

The woman laughed behind her, a quiet snigger under the breath. 

She was still laughing, shrill and stupid, when the Abhorsen left the room, and she could just about make out the mockery of the laugh on the spiral stair, interspersed with chattering voices.

Then the surly chortle turned into a sharp intake of choking breath, and a dying scream.

\- - - -

It was not the first time that the woman in the regency robes had given away control. She never remembered the prior experience until it began to happen again, but she felt compelled to grant each request; she surrendered herself quickly, but felt disjointed, splintered, on every return. A little less than when she left. 

She couldn't deny the compulsion, not even once. She was always playing the perfect host, keeping up appearances, in the hope that the holder of the invisible chord around her neck would never have the need to use it.

She did not remember it, but she had been weak, cowardly. She had begged for her life in service to a sorcerer and he had taken it, at a price. She was allowed to do as she willed, and sometimes she was not, but she could not resist when he inquired for residence. She would know when. He always there, lingering, just out of reach. 

And if she refused, he would pull: she would die and would serve him in a different way.

This time he had not asked, but then, she was only ever a tool to be used at the right moment.

And this was it.

In an instant the woman died, and he broke past years of protective spells he had spent almost a decade eroding. His essence snapped back to Death and leapt, bounded, across the border, to exit inside the castle walls, to occupy a fresh corpse kept warm and cosy and snug. The woman had only lived because he allowed it; because he needed her to do this, to emerge here, as a convenient portal when the time was right. 

He was the puppeteer, and his puppet had surpassed her use.

The occupancy itself was brief, because she was but a door, and he had a form, a form he had long since spent crafting where he had been sealed within the Seventh Gate. He took it now, swathed in the metallic smell of Free Magic and bathed in shadow. He was a monster, a revulsion, with a bandoleer across the darkness of his chest.

He tossed the woman aside like a ragdoll, where she crashed into the two guards who had microseconds or less to gather their senses and wits but had failed their test of time, and were now trapped under rotting flesh, the decomposition rapidly enhanced by his brief time inside her. He ignored them: even if they had attacked, they were no threat to him, merely morsels he would take for dessert.

He also paid no attention to the scribe, even as the old man scuttled away and fled the room. He could _smell_ who the scribe was running after, could hear his frantic cries of "Abhorsen, Abhorsen, Abhorsen!", and all the better if he reached her – she was as much a target of his revenge as was the Regent. It was _her_ kind who had imprisoned him, had left his soul to wither and decay, had meant that his human falseness he now wore was riddled with mistakes from the leeching of the spirit. He spat on her as much as he did the man beneath his bulk, a man cowering in a pool of his own vomit.

The darkness reached, long arms and fingers like tendrils and hooks catching the Regent beneath his neck to make him see, to make him look, to make sure he _knew_ who was upon him.

Ah. But only the Abhorsen would truly know his identity. 

The man, this Regent, did not care for his lineage, after all.


	18. Windward

After spending several hours in the air, Nerysiel decided that she quite enjoyed flying.

Leaving by Paperwing was not a speedy departure. When they'd been aboard the boat – which was now tied up in the channel behind the house – stopping and starting required the raising of an anchor and the persuasion of a sail. Simple enough, with continued practice. Admittedly, the getting on and off that required timing to avoid plummeting into the icy river, and that meant carrying as much as you could on your person to avoid unnecessary to and fro. But it was not difficult, and merely cumbersome.

Getting into the Paperwing was an art form. 

When she'd first seen it, this thing that looked fragile and hardly airworthy, she had to do a double take: and even with that double take and Terciel's confidence in the craft, she did not quite believe in it. It looked as though it was based on a bird, but it texture had the consistency of paper, which was not something that flew fast through the air as he had promised. 

The slumbering eyes on the Paperwing's forward facing parts seemed to watch her as she teetered on the edge of the hangar; not out of nerves, but because the Sendings swarmed all over it. One Sending was even dusting the Paperwing's propeller.

Her pack and newly acquired dagger were wrestled from her back and passed from hand to hand in a train of organised chaos, presumably ending in the Paperwing's innards. Terciel melded between the Sendings, sliding back and forth in the odd dance, until he too disappeared into the confines of the cockpit. 

He reappeared as the swarms began to subside with their tasks complete, now with goggles resting on his forehead, several wafts of hair caught in the strap which he hadn't bothered to fix. He beckoned her over, not by gesture but with a reassuring smile, and she stepped forward towards the craft. He held out a hand to help her climb aboard, and she took it, scrambling about into the small space. She wriggled in her seat, which was suspended by rope on both sides; and even stationary, was swaying under her weight.

Mogget, always one to wait until the last minute when it came to flying, pounced onto Nerysiel's knees and purred as she secured her own goggles into place. He was a cat again, and she raised an eyebrow at him – where he'd been in the Sending mayhem she had no idea. Then he turned to face her with a mouse between his teeth, which he'd slaughtered rather recently somewhere, and he was intending to drop it onto her lap before disappearing into the confines of the craft.

Greed and comfort won that deliberation, for the mouse disappeared into his stomach, head first. Mogget took the lap instead. Nerysiel allowed it, only because there wasn't really anywhere else for him to sit.

The last few Sendings bustled about, and Terciel seemed… occupied with whatever he was doing as a precursor to launching a paper craft into the air, so Nerysiel was left to wait, brimming with questions. She wanted to ask a lot, actually, and not just to clear up her doubts. There was no sense to the Paperwing, but this was not the time to ask, and she had doubted Mogget would be willing to answer, even with loan of her lap.

Eventually, Terciel twisted in the pilot's seat and gave her a thumbs up, which she returned, albeit baffled as to what exactly she was communicating.

"It means you are well," Mogget murmured on her knees, once Terciel had returned his attention to the front of the craft and was directing the Sendings with last minute requests. "Hard to believe anyone could feel well on this wretched device."

"Could we not just say so?"

"He's priming you," Mogget yawned. "You'll see." He didn't explain further, but Nerysiel didn't have time to think about it. One second, she was gazing up at the arch over her head, reminiscent of a bird's wingspan, and the next, the wind began to pick up.

It was a wisp at first, a gentle breeze, that wrapped around the Paperwing's body and rustled hair and clothing. But it was no ordinary breeze: it was borne from Charter marks and the Charter in turn was infused into it. The marks hit her skin and left tiny imprints of golden light, and they felt warm.

Terciel was still standing, his hand rested just above the Paperwing's eye. Whatever he was doing or had done, the Paperwing reacted, shaking itself – shaking itself, like it was alive! – at the wind brushing up against is paper body, as if wound up like a spring ready to bounce and be thrown out of the hangar and into the sky.

But it didn't, not yet. The Sendings held it back as Terciel seated himself without the need to wriggle and then, he started to whistle.

It reminded Nerysiel a little of his bells, because it was Charter magic made from sound. They blew from his lips in an orderly line, a spiral of marks that joined up into the gathering wind that was deftly passing from breeze to gust, and if it continued, it would undoubtedly reach a gale. Still the Sendings held on as Terciel changed his notes in pitch and volume, stopping for breath as the Charter marks did their work, building up wind speed.

Nerysiel watched the marks fly up to join their fellows. Unfamiliar marks, but they seemed to have a structure, a pattern, and whatever they were called for became clear as the wind picked up, or increased from only a certain direction, or bounced up beneath the belly of the Paperwing, trying to toss it into the air if not for the restraints. 

She was, quite suddenly, hit with the desire to want to help, to learn, to know this.

It was not like reading a book, and the fact she couldn't, much. This was a visual representation. This she could see. It did not feel far beyond her reach, and it vitalised her. She hadn't felt this liberation since… since… since Kestrael had told her to join Terciel, wherever that might lead.

It was fortunate it was hard to be lost to that thought with the wind ripping at her clothes, her goggles, the fur of the cat with is head burrowed against her thigh. There was a time for this question and that time was now.

"Can I try?" she shouted over the roar.

Terciel heard her, shaking his head in case she did attempt it because she couldn't hear him. "Weather working takes a lot of practice," he yelled. "I would be happy teach you some other time!" He added as an afterthought, returning to his whistled marks as the craft rocked dangerously to the left by an errant gust.

The craft still rocked, unencumbered by his whistling. New marks, similar marks, still with the same pattern, repeated in time. She felt confident. She felt she could do this.

Nerysiel squinted, thinking only about the Charter, the marks she had seen, tentatively reaching for the flow of the Charter she so often didn't access, and whistled.

The whistle was true, and the marks were correct, sourced by repetition and mimicry, but found and used by feeling. They joined with the stream from Terciel's whistle, and the tune gained vitality and strength. The craft returned to its correct angle, though it continued to bounce, almost buoyant in the gathering winds.

Terciel knew it had not been him that had righted the craft. He could tell, could feel Nerysiel's magic mingled with his own, a perfect recall; she was an incredibly fast learner, even if it was only to copy. Teaching her suddenly went up his list of things to do, not only because of an untapped talent, but copying could be disastrous if she tried to mimic something beyond her level of comprehension.

For now, he simply twisted in his seat and gave her a wind chaffed smile and a thumbs up, which Nerysiel returned in kind, for the wind was far too deafening to speak into, let alone be heard over. Now she understood what Mogget had meant.

The Sendings released the struggling craft, and it shot out from its short runway into the open air, out through the waterfall on the far side of the island, the side Nerysiel had never seen. Spray hit them, a brief shower of ice cold water as she jostled about in her seat, much to the doubled discontent of a yowling Mogget, as she tried to look behind them to, well, appreciate the view.

Terciel had turned into the wind after that, climbing in gradual spirals – which she assisted with, each time becoming easier and practiced, though she listened to each run of marks twice before repeating them – over the House, until it looked like a toy she could reach out over the side and pick up and play with, where dolls might live out their days in silly little fantasies.

When they were high enough, Terciel had turned north, and so they had bobbed along the wind currents, river and trees and buildings racing past beneath them in a blur. It was quieter than she had expected, and the slow rocking of her hammock seat gave a steady rhythm which made it difficult to fight the yearning to doze. As far as they were up in the sky, beneath the clouds, it was peaceful, and it brought a sense of ease to her that the House hadn't. It made her think of the bell she had heard, a week hence, how it had told her to sleep…

Until that sense of tranquillity was lost when she thought about their destination, about Belisaere. 

Nerysiel sat up straighter, fighting the wave of tiredness. She could sleep tonight, under the stars, somewhere where there were trees – or in a cave, she supposed. Terciel didn't seem like a stars and tree for a bed type, and the Paperwing was too conspicuous in the woods, what with its blue colouring. It would have to be hidden, and they with it.

After that, she had settled with resting her arms along the rim beside her, Mogget clinging to her legs and unapologetically snoring. She could spend hours like this, and so she did, thinking of very little; at least until her arms went numb and she had to retreat back into her seat behind the pilot, but even then, she still enjoyed her time flying.

Terciel hadn't allowed his own mind to wander, and didn't have the luxury of looking about the tiny world beneath them that Nerysiel did. He glanced over the side of the craft occasionally for landmarks, or patted the side of the Paperwing for reassurance when the ride grew bumpy, but his focus never wavered. Occasionally his whistle would carry a tune into the wind that still propelled them, but it was a single bar of song, no need to be replicated.

Though Nerysiel couldn't see his face, she could imagine his diligence: the firm line of his mouth, the steady set of his eyes. He would not be the man she remembered from the morning, the man who had laughed at the Sending's reluctance to interact with her, the man who had proposed a gift. They were both facets of him, but now, now he locked his truer self away; the side that was entirely Terciel, and not the Abhorsen-in-Waiting.

But he would remain both of them. He would remain gentle, however stern. He would remain focused. He would remain the man who had come to find her, the man whose arm she had stitched back together; the man whose fever she had waited out.

The man she had almost kissed.

Mogget rearranged himself in her lap, bumping his head against her hand, and she scratched behind his ears. 

If she wasn't otherwise occupied, she might have asked why he did not scratch his own itches, or if they were brought about because of his distaste for flying. But she didn't, the motion of her hand absentminded. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, to Terciel's unruly black hair, the slant of the strap of his goggles. She was thinking about his concentration as he flew, now with very specific detail. How he pursed his lips to whistle. How he would run his tongue along the ridges. How when he thought, perplexed, he would catch his teeth against them. The curve of his smile. 

She thought a lot about his mouth. More than she cared to admit, even to herself.

The gift, the House. Not the right time. Never the right time.

But here, in a Paperwing held aloft by a whistled wind, alone and with hours to spare and mull it over?

Now was a good time to think about it. She might not have another chance.

Her mind raced, her pulse running to her fingers, her heart softly thumping in her chest. Where would their intertwined threads lead? Where did she want them to lead? Did she want them to lead anywhere?

There was so much else to be afraid of, but besides their first meeting when he had been the necromancer that would kill her, an assumed identity, she had never been afraid of him. The Abhorsens' name could scatter the most foolhardy of folk, could silence a circle around a campfire; there were no faces, no people involved, in that fear. It was the fear of their trade, of the Dead, and that was not a fear that had changed.

But now she knew one of them as an individual, and felt the concern for his wellbeing. He could handle the Dead, a trust in abilities she had not yet witnessed, but would; but she had also seen him as a man, a wounded man, on the cusp of fever and the honesty that often brought about.

She could remember the flush, the intensity of his eyes so close.

He might have initiated it, but… then, at that moment, she hadn't wanted him to stop. 

She hadn't wanted to stop herself, but it was wrong, all wrong, and that she had feared, fearing what it might mean if he did care about her, or if she cared about him in return. She banished those thoughts repeatedly away to focus solely on the present, but they kept returning.

Was this all born from circumstance? Was it more? Did she care what it was? Did she care for him?

He had admitted he felt connected to her. She had felt that resonance, too.

First theory: he cared for her as more than just a friend.

They had almost kissed. He thought she was beautiful. He looked at her as though…

Second theory: he still wanted to kiss her.

He was the wisest, sincerest person she had ever met. He carried himself not as superior, but as equal; hopeful and fiercely protective. He had wanted to keep her safe from this. She had wanted to stay with him, at his side, to do the right thing, but also to be with him. She was alone, and he was alone, and together, together, _together_ …

Third theory…

_What do you want, Nelle?_

\- - - -

Nerysiel might have dozed off, or she might have still been wrestling with uncooperative feelings, but what had been a quiet sailing in the air turned into a violet lurch.

The Paperwing dropped downwards in the air currents, everything vertical becoming horizontal and vice versa, close to dislodging all three of its passengers. Nerysiel came to with a start, reaching for bow and arrow that weren't there; Mogget howled, drawing blood as he burrowed his claws deep into the non-protected part of Nerysiel's shoulder; and Terciel battled for control, whistling line after line, but the craft did not rise, a mind of its own.

Instead the Paperwing soared along for several metres, yet, what should have been a deadly descent wasn't. They swooped into the line of the lowering sun, the output weak but the glare in its direct sight as intense as always. Only then did the Paperwing judder, bristling, and righted itself.

Its occupants were thrown forcefully back to their original positions and though they were thousands of paces up into the air, Nerysiel disentangled herself from her the rope of her hammock seat and knelt on the makeshift ground, leaning as far as she dared into the cockpit. Mogget was still attached to her shoulder, but he looked ready to abandon that ship if the craft decided to swerve again, height be damned.

"What's happening!?" she shouted over the rushing wind, magical protections against cold and gale and noise made redundant with the Paperwing's sudden want to fly sideways.

"I'm not sure!" Terciel shouted back, voice wary and tired but alarmed by the sudden break in what had been a largely uneventful afternoon with his thoughts and the wind in his face, both making it easy to forget his troubles. "They only do something like that if they feel under threat by-"

Whatever he was about to deduce was forgotten with an almighty shriek as a crashing mound of flesh and bone arrived at where the Paperwing had been located mere seconds before. Then the flurry of feathers flew about stupidly, momentarily blinded by the sun in the pursuit of their prey they should have caught.

Terciel heard the shriek, twisting about with his restricted view to confirm what his Death sense was already telling him. Nerysiel spotted them first, and she pointed, and he followed the line of her finger.

He groaned. Gore Crows, whilst not particularly tricky entities for him to vanquish, were in fact a hindrance whilst up in the air. He would never deem to underestimate any Dead or the hell they brought with, but Gore Crows were at best, stupid creatures: down on the ground it was merely a matter of knowing what to do with them, as taking down one would make the rest drop. 

Some necromancers were wise enough to raise several groups at once, but that required time and multiple rituals. This one felt like a singular fractured spirit, reinforced against the sun, but they had flown above cloud for many hours, perhaps since they had left the House, and so that reinforcement hadn't been challenged: until now.

Who had sent them and why they had chosen now to set them loose upon the Paperwing were questions he could see to answering once they were safe.

"Gore Crows," he shouted back to Nerysiel, but quieter, as her head rested just above his shoulder. "One spirit. Take down a single Crow and the rest will die again with it. Can't use the Charter; too risky whilst controlling the Paperwing. We either fly into the line of the sun and wait them out, or land and dispose of them there. If they get close enough."

Nerysiel half listened to his explanation, scrutinising the feather ball that was getting over its sun shock and were lining themselves up for another pass. Even from this distance, she recognised them… murderous crows, crows who gored farmers and left scars down dead children's faces. Never had she needed a name, for her village knew them on sight, known their threat. All corvids had often been suspected. But not anymore, given there were likely no blinded children to protect.

She made herself forget, pinching the blooming hurt tightly, tighter and tighter until it felt no bigger than a buzzing sensation in her thumb. Instead, she thought about ways in which to take them down.

"I have my bow," she said.

"She has some accuracy with the bow at least," Mogget said, narrowly avoiding been squashed between two close faces. From him, it was close to praise; both listeners were surprised. But it was just as likely that he preferred this trip to be over as soon as possible without further incident, and without having to land and take off again in quick succession.

Terciel shook his head, gently, and this close, his forehead almost brushed up against her cheek. "Not enough room; you wouldn't be able to stand and draw back-"

"What about the wingspan? That's long enough."

Terciel forgot that he was piloting the Paperwing and that he was largely responsible for it continuing to stay aloft. He twisted around in his seat fully to face Nerysiel. He was clearly thinking what she had already begun to think, and from the look on her face, she was gearing himself up to do it.

"No," he warned. "It's paper. It was not designed to hold you."

"It's holding me now. And it's better than doing nothing and being forced to land," Nerysiel hedged, shrugging. His anxious look gave her pause, but her familiar stubbornness was rising, and if there was even a chance, she would follow through. "I'll manage."

"Nerysiel-"

But she was already retreating away from him, scrambling beneath the hammock to where her bow had been squashed into the confines, leaving it in reach, and then climbed up into the Paperwing's upper arch and what passed for its rigging, hauling herself up onto the wings.

The joints sagged under the weight, and the Paperwing quivered and wobbled, but with a few well timed notes from Terciel, it flew straight again. Her hand reached down and grabbed her bow, fished for several arrows, and then disappeared.

Terciel returned to looking straight ahead, trying desperately not to think of Nerysiel jumping headlong into the most dangerous situation she could imagine putting herself in, which at this moment was sitting atop a Paperwing in flight.

Mogget, now in the cockpit, sat on Terciel's knee, glared up at him accusingly, as though he thought him pathetic for not being able to stop her latest fancy.

"I know," he whispered to the cat, whose expression did not change. " _I know._ "

"Fly it straighter, if you want a chance for her to survive," the cat instructed, moving up to his shoulder to inspect the progress of the Gore Crows. "And stop it."

"Stop what?"

Mogget didn't elaborate, instead thwacking Terciel's nose with his tail, making his nose twitch with the threat of a sneeze. Whatever he wanted Terciel to stop, clearly, he meant him.

Up on the wingspan of the Paperwing, Nerysiel thoroughly understood just how much the Paperwing had been protecting her from the elements. Her teeth chattered and her hands felt numb and hot at the same time as she pinned down her bow with her body weight, her hands gripping the insides of the wing.

It wasn't as bumpy as she expected, so either Terciel was calling up another wind and directing the vessel or the Paperwing itself knew in its strange sentience what she was trying to achieve – the eye was looking up at her, curiously, expectantly, and it certainly hadn't been looking skywards before.

The mass of crows was gaining speed, but for now, they were still a blob. But soon, in less than a minute, they would overtake the Paperwing and the three of them would be at the mercy of those sharp, gleaming beaks, their talon feet; it would be their force that would throw them from the air and up here like this with only the armour against her skin, her life would likely be forfeit.

Again, she pushed that thought aside, pinching it until it was gone and it was nothing but a dream. There wasn't much time. She had to get up.

She did, agonisingly slowly, until she was sat with her calves gripping the sides of the wing, arrows held firmly between her teeth. She had three. She hoped it would be enough, as she looped one into her bow and drew it back.

With that little time, the Gore Crows seemed much closer. She could make out the sound of their distinctive, inhuman squawks now, harsh compared to the whistled winds, and, could see each soulless eye; there were several dozen, and it was easy to think that they could overwhelm. 

But if one went down, they all did. She held onto that thought. All she had to hit was one.

The first arrow she didn't expect to hit anything. It didn't, falling short of the cloud of birds; not by much, but it was carried away on the air currents all the same. That was the test, to see how much she needed to adjust at such an unnatural position and her unable to stand.

The second arrow, she hoped would be the end of it. That it would hit.

It did, skirting along the wing joint of an approaching crow, skewering the remains of sinew and muscle. The crow flapped about in the air, losing height, its stubby feet cycling as if that would help to keep it airborne. Then, it plummeted to the ground… or would have, if it were not near the top of the sphere of decaying crows, and has simply smashed into its fellows. They kept it aloft despite the common sense that they should not have been able to do so, supported by magic as they were.

Nerysiel cursed with a mouthful of arrow. It had been a good shot, and it would have taken down any bird. But not one near the top of the cloud, which meant she would have to hit the sides, or the bottom, and that was harder, since their pattern of movement was much, much more random, and would require more luck than she was willing to bet with.

She drew back her bow again, with the final arrow, and willed that luck to hold.


	19. Our Souls, We Bare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would you look at that, i'm alive and updating my monster fic! i've just finished the second arc and have six chapters (not including this one) to edit, so hopefully there will be more soon before i dive into the third arc.
> 
> also this chapter is a bit nsfw but it's extremely tasteful. too ace for this, yo.

Nerysiel awoke with a start, thrashing her arms to regain her purchase on the Paperwing.

Only there was no Paperwing beneath her. She was lying on her back on cold hard stone, every muscle protesting at such a poor bed, and her pack was presently being used for a just as uncomfortable pillow.

It was also dark, but that was not unfamiliar. The location itself was different, different sights and sounds and smells - her hands scratched along the stone dust, seeking her bow, which was thankfully at her side. She pressed her arm against her waist, feeling the familiar weight of the dagger in its sheath along her forearm. The feeling gave her a little reassurance.

She strained to see, to move beyond the twitching of her hands, but she could not; any further movement, and she would slump, exhausted, as if pushed back to bed by invisible hands. So she settled with what was above her, which wasn't much, since the ceiling, if there was one, kept going into the dark.

Squinting to her left, she could just about make out the lip of a cave, and the distant dripping of stagnant water. Drip, drop… enough to keep anyone who wasn't spelled asleep awake. 

There was a brief glimmer, a glint across the cave's width, which could only be the moon, close to full. In that brief illumination, she could see the Paperwing; tucked away and hidden, concealed with that strange glamour that she'd seen cast before in High Bridge, for she couldn't quite focus on it.

Where was she? She didn't remember this at all. Where had she been last?

In the Paperwing? No, she had been on top of it – she had a vague recollection of her trying to grip the sides of its wings. But before that… there had been the Gore Crows, their pursuit, the final arrow to take them out, which _had_ …

But not fast enough, as the spiralling birds dropping out of the sky like blood blots were at the mercy of the summoned wind and air currents. Out of control, the crows had spun towards the levelled Paperwing and, inhabited or no, the craft would have been ripped to shreds. And she, on top of it, would have fallen to her death.

Had she fallen? She closed her eyes, again trying to rouse herself without success. She remembered a rush of air and a shout as the Paperwing vaulted sideways, and-

Well, she must have done.

And where was-

"Terciel?"

Her eyes snapped open, suddenly worried, concerned. She had not seen him in that momentary moonlight, could not remember what had happened to him when the Paperwing descended. She hadn't meant to say his name aloud, and it didn't carry very far on the cusp of the cave, given her voice was rather hoarse - indicative of a past scream, maybe? - but… 

There was no answer. Terciel did not appear.

Nerysiel sat up, the golden Charter marks sluggishly swimming up and down and under her skin burning away to nothing. She felt something as they went - a tear in a spell - but it did not occur to her what it could have been, or to check. There were more important things to be doing.

Rationality replaced the lapse of fear; he had to be here, somewhere, or else she and the Paperwing would not be. But where?

Slowly, she stood, navigating unsteady feet and wobbly knees, and eventually attained a clumsy balance. Swaying, she held out one hand in front of her and produced a tiny ball of Charter flame, a wisp, with the colour of a lightning strike. The furthest she could see was to the nose of the slumbering, inanimate Paperwing, but it was better than waiting for the clouds to give way to the moon once again.

Now she had to decide where to look, which, now on her feet, seemed easier. She felt… not exactly rested, knowing that if she returned to her uncomfortable bed, she would fall asleep within seconds, but she did feel vibrant – enthused. Her body might still be asleep, but her mind was well and truly awake. She could go outside – but not knowing exactly where she was nor if the Paperwing was hidden away for a reason, it seemed like a bad idea.

She spun, towards the darker reaches of the cave. In, then? Past the Paperwing?

Feeling the rough texture of the paper with a curved hand, she traced its width as she ducked underneath the wing, the Charter wisp lighting up the path ahead of her, darting about, searching for Terciel as much as she was.

She went the length of the Paperwing and didn't find him, and was about to reevaluate her earlier conclusion when her wisp fizzed and crackled and retreated to her shoulder, having just been pinned down between the claws of a cat who had toyingly released it back towards its owner: demonstrating that he could, in fact, resist a speck of light.

"You're awake," he said approvingly. The tone was explained as he slid between her legs and bounded away under the Paperwing, calling back, "That means I can go out and catch some mice!"

If she wanted to ask anything of the vanishing cat, Nerysiel was not going to have the opportunity, as Mogget vanished into the dark. As it was, he was a passing thought, quickly banished, since when her wisp braved the empty air in front of her again, she saw Terciel.

Charter lights, the colour of embers, danced about his face. He wasn't asleep or occupied beyond reading: reading, as ever, passed the emptier of his hours, or hours in which he could spend fretting. He'd removed his own armour and had rebuttoned his surcoat over his shirt - it was misaligned by one or two holes, which he hadn't bothered to fix. 

At Mogget's departure, he had looked up, and was turning to face her just as she approached.

Their eyes met. 

Nerysiel's relief, her want to exhale, was chased away and replaced with a different want. Their faces were lit by dancing specks of Charter fire between them, mostly his and the single one of hers, and she nervously smiled.

She was struck with thoughts, too many to count. She thought about reunions, thankfulness, of embraces and kisses and what each of those things might mean. She thought about Terciel, how she couldn't describe anything that she felt. She thought about her deliberation on the Paperwing. She thought about his gift. She thought about following through with her thoughts. She thought about doing anything and everything.

But she did none of them, except to smile. "Hey."

"Hey," he offered back, his mouth curving upwards: even if it seemed as though he did not want to allow himself to do so, not yet. But whatever resolve he had drawn up for himself, whatever he wanted to say, had left him in her presence, just as it had left her.

She waited.

"How are you feeling?" Nerysiel asked, as the silence stretched. She might as well start somewhere.

"Me?" Terciel laughed, but it wasn't for humour, and it lacked it. It was a despairing laugh, a laugh that belied deeper, darker feelings. His laugh made Nerysiel uneasy, and she looked about, avoiding his gaze. But he wasn't finished. "That's my line. What about you?"

"I managed," she whispered.

"This time," he uttered, under his breath. It was so quiet, swallowed by the empty space of the cave, that she almost missed it.

But she did hear it. It was not angry, for Terciel's temper was a guarded thing, never breached, whilst hers bubbled about beneath the surface, as she'd never had to really still her emotions, never had greater things to aspire to and mantles to inherit. Their emotions might guide them, but it was different ways in which they were utilised. Right now, Terciel was… it was concern, and grief, that she had heard.

 _This time_.

It was strange he had said it to her now. There were so many times she had done reckless things in his presence; their entire friendship was built upon her first reckless act, when she had aimed an arrow at his heart, and again, and again, over and over. Against children under a thrall and out into fire stricken woods, she had shown herself to be reckless and stubborn and decisive when she had a goal and the means with which to follow through. 

What had changed, then? Why was this time so different?

It dawned upon her that perhaps it was not a specific time that he referred to. It was a fear that her luck, her life, would run out.

It hadn't before. After all, she still lived. But that wasn't where his grief had come from.

He turned away from her, as if a mask had slipped, and she had seen something she was not meant to see. And that she could not bear, could not bear to remember the lines of his face so taught, so broken.

She knelt at his side, there in an instant, a hand pressed against his chest, just over his heart. "Terciel?"

He still wouldn't look at her, _refusing_ , eyes slanted to the ground. If he was attempting to compose a new mask, it was flawed; his features were too static, far too distant to be real.

He ran a hand up over his eye and across his brow, where his fingers lingered against his hairline. "I thought," Terciel began, so reticent that his words could have been suffocated by the beating of his heart, "when I had to swerve the Paperwing, and I heard your scream, and – I saw you _fall_ \- I thought – I thought, ' _this is it_ '. This is when I would lose you. Nerysiel, I have made a terrible mistake. We should not be here, not together, not where you might-"

"Wait," Nerysiel interrupted, forcefully, louder than she intended despite the agitation of her throat. "Wait."

He did, his runaway thoughts snapping with the one word command. He was getting away from himself, from the heart of it; but that was not the only reason she stopped him, because he was about to blame himself for everything, and she would not have it.

"I chose to be here. I was certain then; I am certain now. You saved me from that fatal fall, didn't you?"

"This time," he repeated, his resolve not to meet her eyes waning.

"This time, last time, next time," she counted them off, one finger for each against his collar bone. "You've saved me, I've saved you. We knew that this wouldn't be easy; we both may not return from Belisaere, but together, we are stronger. Have we not proved that?"

Terciel met her eyes. "That's not what I mean."

"What _do_ you mean?" she asked, gently, warring against exasperation, because despite her resolved stance, she felt she already knew what he meant.

But he wouldn't say it.

Even if he had figured it out, he couldn't. He would never allow himself to say it.

In that moment she knew it.

She knew what she wanted.

Him.

There was hardly any space to cross. A look, a lean, a _touch_ -

She kissed him.

A brief kiss, as her lips ghosted over his and she pulled back, close enough to recall and feel his breathing on her mouth. 

It was not meant for more. It was what she wanted, to show that if he wanted it too, she would be willing. He did not have to hide it away any longer; he could have her, if that was what he felt.

The moment after lasted longer than the kiss, with steady, practiced breathing as Terciel processed. She was still looking at him. He had been wrong when she had stitched him back together – it was now that he could count every freckle, see every nick and notch on her skin, feel her breath mingling with his in close air.

Had he dreamed it? Had he dreamed her up?

No, she was real, alive, hand pressing hard against his bones on his chest, not letting go.

This was her answer to something he could not voice, a reply that could not be doubted. He had not said it… but she had figured it out, unravelled her own feelings, and beaten him to the punchline. The kiss repeated in his head, brief and flickering and he wanted more. He wanted to remember. He wanted to recall it closer, rather than time making it travel further away.

It was no longer an _almost_.

His secret was now that he wanted to kiss her again.

All he had to do was show her.

But – and his heart ached, his heart broke, crushed beneath her hands – he couldn't.

He never ever could.

"We shouldn't do this."

His refusal took all his willpower, with her almost tangible. 

But it didn't chase her away. She fixed him with that intense, resonating stare, not yet hurt, only comforting.

"I've made my choice," she whispered fiercely.

Every nerve, every thought, screamed at him to kiss her back, to know she was alive, to know that she was here, that they were both here, before whatever was to happen in the capital. There was no almost falling. He had walked into this love, despite all adamant protests that he could not allow it.

He caught himself, but not soon enough to avoid catching her upper lip with his lower one as he swayed and it was hard, hard to speak and listen to reason.

"Nerysiel, wait, I-"

She stopped, but unlike the last time, the moment did not pass. It waited for them; it waited for him.

"When I said I understood," he started, then stopped; his breathing slowed, in the heart of another secret with a door that he never opened, never allowed himself to touch, but also one that he now knew he had to.

She searched his eyes, seeking a prompt. "There was someone?"

"Yes."

"Someone like me?"

"Yes." 

"Someone precious?"

Terciel felt it, a thousand flashes, a thousand thousand thoughts and feelings in one brief instant as it all came back, all of it carefully sealed away for many, many years. He allowed himself to feel, to remember. He breathed deeply.

"Yes." Terciel sighed, overcome. "He was."

"What happened?"

"I lost him," he said quietly, broken. But not broken enough, not unfeeling, not without a hand to reach against Nerysiel's cheek, to run a thumb against her skin, to recall what it was that he could not allow, that he had found again and he would not indulge, so he would not lose. "Do you understand? I cannot lose you too."

"You won't," she whispered. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"You don't know that." Terciel shook his head, closing his eyes.

"We never do," Nerysiel said, placing a hand over his, leaning against it. "This is all we have. Now. I know who you are. You are the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. It is not a life you would want of anyone, to walk beside someone who sends the Dead back to where they belong, who chases necromancer, Free Magic creature and is shunned and feared for it. You are good, and kind. You would not force this life to anyone with a choice. To anyone who does not have to walk your path. But I choose to go with you; I want to go with you. I know what it is that I am choosing. I don't want to lose you, either. Please, Terciel. Please. Stay with me."

She knew what she asked. She knew, and the words buried deep into his bones.

Terciel opened his eyes.

Could he not have this, however fleeting it might be?

He was only one person, only ever weak and hopeful.

And Charter, he was so, so tired of being so strong and so alone.

The moment had waited long enough. He embraced it, however uncertain.

"What do we now?"

It was soft rhetoric, but he still desired an answer.

_Where do we go from here?_

"Kiss me," Nerysiel suggested.

He did.

\- - - -

His lips crashed against hers and it took them both under.

His hand found the nape of her neck as her fingers tangled into his hair.

This wasn't new. They had kissed others before, done more than that, but as Terciel had torn down the final walls preventing him from touching, from kissing, to allowing himself to fall head first into this moment, it changed everything. They had always been leading to this. This was meant. It was inevitable, a pause in the path where there would always be this sense of bliss.

It was by no stretch tender, and by all means desperate.

Tomorrow they would go to Belisaere and fight.

Tomorrow they would fight an old war.

But tonight there was just the two of them together; stardust and constellations and heightened and intensity and fear and anticipation and this kiss, his kiss, her kiss.

Air.

An inconvenience which drew them apart, but he could still taste her, and feel the flush of her cheeks, the gasps for breath as they broke away.

"More," he said, against her mouth.

"More," she agreed vigorously, wrapping her other arm around his neck as he tipped up her chin, meeting him midway. 

They wouldn't need air again, and none of it would be spent on syllables. Only breathing. Only looks, him checking, over and over, that she was sure.

And she was, irrevocably.

\- - - -

He lifted her clean from the ground and they spun, twisting and twirling, and they danced to the wall, where he pinned his hands against her shoulders and he kissed her soundly, deeply, true. Her own hands were not idle. They undid buttons, slid the surcoat from his shoulders and somehow managed to lift the shirt up over his head.

She couldn't think. But this was what she had to do. Everything told her to do it. Everything, as he made quick work of dismantling her armour, far faster than she ever could and had that morning putting it on. He kissed her shoulder blade, pushing her shirt aside and she wanted this, hands in his hair, wanted this, hands against toned muscles, wanted this, wanted this-

He paused, meeting her eyes, and she kissed him again, savage and hungry and wanting. Please, she didn't say, guiding his hands to the base of her shirt, still smelling faintly of lavender and soap. Please, as she tousled his fingers into fabric. Please take it off.

The rest of their clothing followed naturally, no more resistance met, and together they fell, simultaneous and one being, to the ground and she couldn't breathe and he kissed her and he couldn't breathe and she kissed him.

"Nerysiel…" he uttered, against her cheek as his hand snaked their way down her waist and hips, stopping briefly to chart the curve of her breasts.

She was feeling, too gone, and words didn't cover it. But her name, her name, like this, he should-

"Terciel," she whispered back, her breath hitching as his fingers traced patterns over pelvis bones. "Nelle. Call me-"

"Nelle," he repeated, this time against her mouth.

It was happening and they both knew it and they couldn't stop it, but this was the second, the second where they revelled in it, where they knew they could stop but Charter they wouldn't.

She uttered nothings, encouragement, his name as he kissed against her mouth and she kissed his, wrapping her arms around strong shoulders, wanting him closer, always closer, and there was one way which he knew and she knew and it was this.

"Are you certain-"

"Please," she said, cutting him off. She looked into his eyes as he looked into hers, and found his hands, lacing them tightly, never letting go, and never did either of them plan to. Not for tonight, and not ever after.

No more. No more indecision.

\- - - -

Waking was difficult, but not impossible. It was hindered by the fact it was still dark, and he was cold: which was unsurprising, as simple Charter spells for warmth would do little to prevent drafts that snuck in and over the Paperwing's bulk.

And he was naked. That made him colder, and it also didn't assist the option to rise.

He knew where he was, what had happened, who was at his side, but how he had gotten beneath the Paperwing's nose, and wrangled his pack into place as a pillow, was an unknown. The scattered clothing made a bit more sense, for he remembered taking that off, the help he'd had to do so, welcome and wanted, but the blanket draped over them was another mystery. A blanket that was not its best, given the draft that lifted it around entwined feet and curled his hair and tickled his nose.

He checked his clothing inventory without moving, which was easier thought than done, because it was… well, everywhere. He could see the glint of his sword beside his body, tangled up in breeches, and he could feel the bells muttering on the opposing side of the canvas that was his pack, far from unwanted disturbance.

Only then, accounting for the night, did he allow himself to feel, to recollect the activities that came with it. It had been… sudden, unintended at first, but they'd no less performed for one another. There was no regret mingled with the surprise and satisfaction of their coupling; he had wanted every minute, no matter where it sprung from.

The afterglow was peaceful, and quiet.

And then there was that irreplaceable warmth of another beside him… a feeling he had not cherished in far too long. Now he allowed himself to look, to where Nerysiel was propped against him, head lilting to his shoulder, mouth partly agape, partly swollen, and hair askew from where it had been tied.

He had been wrong again. She kept proving herself more beautiful when he least expected it.

How had she managed to become so dear to him?

He didn't care to think for an answer, to contemplate if this was love stirring and cementing itself in his heart. He felt no different about her. Only… contented, and dare he think it, happier. He wanted to smile and laugh and lift her in his arms and kiss her soundly, to leave each of their respective troubles behind.

They couldn't do that. It was partly why tonight had happened; because this was it. Now, these simple, carefree minutes, was all the time they could have for each other: all the same, the small fleeting daydream was nice to entertain.

Nerysiel still hadn't woken, even as he watched, drowsiness calling to him to catch a few more hours of unconsciousness. But they had to address this… acknowledge it, when not intoxicated with each other.

Terciel bent his head across, as slowly as he dared, and pressed a kiss against Nerysiel's forehead.

That woke her up. Unlike him, where he had felt hindered, hers was an immediate response: her eyes snapped wide like a predatory animal and drank in his face. Recognising his features, she then relaxed, with a sigh.

"Go back to sleep, Terciel…" she instructed. However fast she had woken up, she was still groggy. The dark also meant she could sleep a little more, and she was content to do so, a hand placed over his to attract his wandering attentions.

"Hmm," he mused. The hand over his and the instruction to rest more? Good arguments, both. "As tempting as that is… we should get up. Separate, before Mogget comes back."

"Later," she urged, eyes closed once again. He was almost convinced to do the same.

"We didn't eat," he ventured. It was true, they hadn't, given that he had been planning to wait for her to recover with his spell's assistance, and instead she had helped him into this bed of rocks and nested clothes. Not that that was a problem.

" _Later_."

Terciel sniffed his arm, making a face. "We didn't _bathe_."

Nerysiel laughed, a brief chuckle, and close as they were, he felt it through his ribs, along his collarbone. "That's what you think about?"

"I can't help it. Home comforts," he lamented. She nudged him in his shoulder with a quick twitch of her head, and he mocked an 'ow' in complaint, so she did it again.

That tussle lasted about a minute until tiredness loomed over them once more.

Gradually, Terciel settled himself back onto rock instead of leaving the makeshift bed that every bone in his body would object to come morning. He wrapped a hand around Nerysiel's shoulder, and she leant into it, into him, fingers feather light on his chest, watching her own hand rise and fall.

They stayed like that for several minutes, slipping in and out of sleep, not quite wanting to let the moment go.

For right now, she was there, he was there, and it was still this, their night - and it was their first, and last, chance to be alone together. There would not be another. Not until after the end, if they could work those thoughts aloud.

And they might not both walk away from this. They had both subconsciously understood it, tense as they were, following it through to that, to this. And here they were, together, for just a little longer. A few more minutes of peace and then… then, they would have to put _them_ , the two of them, aside, at least for now.

That was the reason for their silence. He wasn't ready to put her aside. Not yet.

Neither was she. Whatever his feelings could be called for her, she felt them in return. So it was enough.

Terciel exhaled. "Can I still call you Nelle?"

"You were thinking about that, too?" she said sleepily, without looking up at him, watching her hands on the steady incline as his lungs inflated.

"Among other things," he smiled, which she did not see. That was alright. She was smiling privately, too. "If we're to leave tomorrow for later, to not think on this then, your name is one thing I'd like to take with me. If you will allow it."

She twisted round then, to look into his face. "I'll allow it," she said, and they kissed, smiling, sealed.

Terciel fell asleep again after that.

\- - - -

Nerysiel didn't want to wake up, but with the crushing weight on her shoulder, she didn't have much choice about it.

It was not cramp, and it was not the rock floor; she'd slept through worse. And it wasn't Terciel, because she could hear him breathing, feel him as he remained at her side, his strong, toned chest making an excellent pillow. No, this weight was very deliberate and also came with sharp, extended claws - and on bare skin, those hurt.

"Ow!" she shouted, loud enough for Terciel to wake with a start.

"What!" he joined in. She shouted back, he shouted again; and the both of them floundered about for a moment under their blanket for, tangled as they were, it was not conducive to sitting up.

Terciel tried to grab his sword, and failed; she tried to swat at the shape on her shoulder, and fell against him; he tried to support her up, and they only crashed back down; it was a disgraceful, uncoordinated display, and it was fortunate that their assailant was not out for blood.

Avoiding hands and bodies and limbs, Mogget landed, seating himself on the blanket just shy of Nerysiel's stomach, curled up with his own legs tucked into his white mass, a poised singular slipper that you most definitely did not want to disturb. He waited as the Abhorsen-in-Waiting and the hunter gathered their wits and looked, and realised, with relief, that it was only him.

Then that relief passed, for they then realised they had been caught.

To Mogget, their reactions were almost comical. Nerysiel squeaked, further embarrassing herself with such a high-pitched sound, and she pulled as much of the blanket up to her chin as she could manage to try to hide her reddening face. Terciel, more used to him, skipped the squeak and the deep flush, but the telltale scarlet still spread across his cheeks (and on such pale skin, it looked worse), and he would not meet the cat's eye.

There was a lot he could choose to say, in this moment. Mogget enjoyed watching them squirm, and it would be a shame to lose it by speaking, but a carefully chosen statement could make this moment beautiful and eternal.

Not that he truly cared for what they had done; he had little to no thought on an act that was a prerequisite to his endless servitude as the tiny pitter-patter of baby Abhorsen feet would have to come from somewhere, and had.

But he could act like it did bother him. He could tell them to at least seek out a room. About how inconsiderate they had been, given that he had stayed outside, in the cold, in the dark, for far longer than he ought to whilst they indulged in their own primal wants. How they had woken up once already, and ungraciously had not thought to move!

Ah, but, he had something else, better than all of those combined.

He wrinkled his nose and bared his teeth in disgust, appalled at his find.

"Ew," the cat said.

"Out, Mogget!" Terciel stammered, authoritatively, his voice returned. But he didn't sound very convincing, even to himself, and he had no means to enforce it.

Mogget grinned, sarcasm restored, and chortled under his breath. "Suit yourselves. Try to keep it down." He leapt forward, landing on their faces and not caring for the cries of complaint underfoot as he stampeded from one to the other, tail thwacking each party that wasn't being accosted by tiny cat feet.

Just as they were about to rally themselves to throw him off, the cat disappeared. He scampered over the pillow, avoiding all the divots in the pack, and clambered up onto the wing of the Paperwing where his tail could just be seen, swaying back and forth. "And catch me breakfast before it's time to go!"

"Wasn't he out all night hunting mice?" Nerysiel grumbled, spitting cat fur out of her mouth, feeling the imprints of his feet across her nose and cheeks long after the cat was gone.

"Ignore him." Though Terciel was repeating his previous advice, this time, he sounded strained, because ignoring Mogget in such a mood would only make it worse.

"He's going to use this to his advantage forever, isn't he."

"He is. If there one thing that defines him, it's a long memory."

Nerysiel kept frowning. This was fresh ammunition for her continued acquaintanceship with Mogget and it was worth a great deal, and oh, Mogget knew it. This wouldn't be something he would keep until the right moment. This was something he would be willing to use at all times because of her cursed reaction.

"I suppose there's nothing to deter him?"

"Likely not," Terciel was apologetic, though he ran his hand over her shoulder, whispering in her ear, close enough that she could feel his lips move there. "However, if we truly do disgust him, a kiss might make him go away for a while longer."

"Tempting," Nerysiel reasoned, turning her head enough so that their noses touched.

"That's not going to help," Mogget huffed, distantly.

"On the contrary, Mogget," Nerysiel smiled, eyes not moving to acknowledge the direction of his voice, too busy and fixed on Terciel, "I think it will."

They kissed, gentle and reflecting, still in that small bubble safe from anxiety and the fast approaching dawn. If there was light enough for them to see Mogget by, and beyond each other, then it would soon be time to leave.

As they parted from the kiss, they each mouthed, _'ew'_ , a single note of laughter following it as Nerysiel moved to kiss him on the cheek.

"Wait here," she said. "I'll fetch breakfast."

"It's almost as though I'm not needed," Terciel mused, as Nerysiel slipped away from his arms and his touch and embrace, withdrawing from under the blanket. 

"Oh, there are options. Finding somewhere to bathe, for instance," Nerysiel shrugged, and he could imagine the mischief playing on her face. Well, he could. A bath, soap! Both wonderful things suited for a calm morning.

Politely, he looked away as she emerged from the blanket, though her back was to him; she rustled through the clothes piled about, retrieving her own. He tried to think of something, anything else, but his thoughts traitorously returned to the feel of things he could not see.

He glanced, unable to help it, as she lifted her hair up over her shirt, a disturbance on the edge of his vision: she ran her hands along her own neck and flicked her hair back with a tiny headshake. Then she straightened her undershirt, seeking breeches, and he looked away again.

She noticed his discretion, how he forced himself to be polite, and she shook her head, fondly. 

That's how she felt about him when she thought about him now: fond. But as she already knew, she was never good at unravelling feelings when there was something else to be done and the time was not right, and the time right now was for her to dress and find something for them to eat. She hadn't thought to ask or check, but… if there were mice, there would be something larger, certainly. And if any Gore Crows showed up, she would take them down and teach their master a lesson.

Finished, Nerysiel deliberately entered Terciel's line of vision as she ducked down to sweep her bow over her head and shoulders and secure it across her back. Terciel, however, was not watching that movement, more interested in what she had selected to wear over the top of her shirt.

It was a surcoat, midnight blue, emblazoned with studded silver keys. His surcoat. Though they were of similar height, it was too big for her, and she had left several buttons at the top undone, which seemed to be her way regardless of attire. 

"Doesn't that belong to me?"

Nerysiel shrugged, exaggerated. "I couldn't find my jerkin."

"You're going hunting in that?"

She shrugged again, more passive. "I've hunted in less." She winked for emphasis.

He believed it. "Before you go – check the front compartment of the Paperwing."

"Why?" she asked.

"Your gift," he said, casual as he could, but he felt his heart stutter and start, afraid of her reaction, whether she would reject it. It was a silly thing to fuss over, given that it was a material thing and it was he who put stock into material attachment, not her.

She fussed with the surcoat, absently, thinking it over, and then said, "We'll see."

They smiled, a private smile, and with one last, lingering gaze, Nerysiel left.

She passed the Paperwing, out of sight, fumbling with her pack and dagger and muttering to herself, making a large amount of noise for such an esteemed hunter, but when she left the cave, it was with stealthy silence.

Terciel watched her go: or her feet, as they were all he could see beneath the Paperwing's whitewashed belly. It was hard to make out what she wore, but he had a feeling that the racket was for show; a charade, and she might have checked the Paperwing's compartment after all.

His question was answered as she stepped past the threshold, and it wasn't her old boots he saw on her feet, but a new pair - midnight blue, just like his surcoat.


	20. Blood

The dying scream and the ensuing commotion were another world away, and the Abhorsen cursed herself for her haste.

She span on a practiced heel and started back up the spiral staircase, two at a time, inwards and outwards, reaching for her sword which gleamed, alerted by her touch and the reek and hiss of Free Magic that fumed down the stairs.

The Abhorsen near collided with the scribe, still shouting and imploring her name, but they both avoided a possibly fatal fall: her free hand held the quivering man's shoulder as he shrunk below his size, no longer proud but fearful and scared and suddenly ill.

"Abhorsen," he beseeched, but he needn't. Unlike the Regent's intent to use her as a tool, perfect for the job, this was her duty, and her duty she would serve.

She steadied the scribe, searching for features to remember him by, should she see him again. There was not much to commit. He was old, and greying, and his hands were worn with whorled skin, cracked from many years of writing. "Get as many out as you can," she instructed.

"And you?" he asked, surprising her with concern for her wellbeing, even shell shocked as he was. But he was not stupid, as she had seen before - he knew of what she faced, even if he did not know the thing's name. Even so, he had implored upon her to face something that he could not face himself, and his conscience guilted him.

The Abhorsen smiled, her practiced, weather-beaten smile of encouragement for such occasions. But she could not delay further with false platitudes, and with a hearty grip on the scribe's shoulder, she left him behind. For the next few steps up, she hoped he would live.

Then she turned her attention to doubling her pace despite protesting bones, because of a new scream. She was not horrified to know she recognised it as a reaction to the breaking of a bone. 

It troubled her more that this had occurred. It was not impossible: wards were never perfect, and those that insisted they would hold were fools. This, however, was a bold move, and no necromancer would attempt it, stranded and alone - none of the living necromancers, fresh faced to their art, would risk their own death, not unless they had been to those murky waters and returned more times than counting.

Greater Dead, was what she suspected: perhaps one that had once been a necromancer. But she had no more time to riddle it out, for the stairs ended and she had returned to the large room.

It was not at she remembered. There was a scorch in stone where the being had erupted into the woman, corpse now matted as if already misshapen to the wants of a Hand. There was blood, too, spattered over the table, over the walls, on the window. That was from the guards, who in those precious seconds it had taken her to return, had foolishly attacked and were rebuked, with enough force to knock them unconscious and to bleed. One had been impaled, lost to the river. The other, the man, had hit his head against the table, and the patch of blood forming at his head was indicative that he too was dead, if her sense of Death had not already informed her.

She should have suspected this sort of foul play.

What she did not expect was the one committing it. 

He – for it was masculine in shape – was a monster, shaped from darkness and crafted with the disturbing characteristics that a being long Dead would reckon a man to look like; of someone vain who had prized their original body whilst alive, a visage that was now denied to them.

He was something old, something much more powerful than most that ranked amongst the Greater Dead: something that made the bells in her bandoleer rattle against their confines, for he was also hated and he should not have been here.

"Abhorsen," the shape bowed in greeting. It was not a mockery. He had great respect for the Abhorsens through his hatred, because it was never wise to give things of great power lesser respect than they warranted. This one was as powerful as the one who had once sealed him, as tuned to the wretched Charter, even with it weakened and diluted.

Though he had been distracted from his bone breaking by first the guards, and then the Abhorsen herself, the darkness still had a vice grip on the Regent's left forearm, pulled from its socket unnaturally as he laid on the floor, sobbing silently.

The Abhorsen was careful. She did not make a move beyond her initial entry. Her fingers itched for the comfort of a bell in their grasp, but she did not draw one. Not yet. She might need any of them, perhaps two, and she was not willing to put down her sword, which she held between them as a warning, but no further.

She thought about not saying his name, that it was wrong to grant the darkness the identity it had once held. But she, too, was a great believer in respect for those of great power, lest you be caught unawares. Acknowledgement of him would be her first step in the game she had entered.

She did not bow. She did not move her sword further.

"Kerrigor," she stated, plainly. 

If he were anything living, he might have flushed to have someone know his name, but he was not. Instead, he increased the pressure on the Regent's arm, crushing bone to dust beyond mending. 

"Well done," his languished praise was red hot and metallic, even from this distance. "She knows! Our first meeting, she proves she is not a fool! But look, Regent, look upon her stance! She is ready to send me back to whence I came to Death, back to the spelled Gate her ancestors bound me to! Do you think she will succeed?"

The Regent cowered, barely able to speak through the warped breaths of pain. "No."

"'No'?" Kerrigor repeated. "On what grounds do you deem my success?"

"None," the Regent replied. Words were beyond him, unable to summon the rest of his vocabulary to form a sentence.

"He admits it!" Kerrigor bellowed. "You have no idea who I am!" His vice relented, only to take hold around the other arm with a sickening crunch. The Regent was beyond screams now, only left with audible, choked tears.

Kerrigor was mad and vengeful, drunk on the power of his current success, of years spent waiting.

The Abhorsen felt it. He was unpredictable, but all she could do was bargain, play for time, trick him. She nodded towards the Regent. 

"Your fight is not with him, Kerrigor. Let him go."

"Is it not? This pretender sits upon the throne. He is the patch I must remove for my final victory, a victory you denied so many years past. No Regent, no palace. No palace, no protection. No protection..." his gaze flickered, serpentine, towards the Abhorsen. His smile, his madness, faded: his voice was silk but also all things terrible. "…blood for the breaking."

His words settled like dust in the sun.

_Oh._

Now she understood. 

Fractionally, her eyes widened, her only visible reaction to his words. 

But Kerrigor saw, and he revelled in it. "You for her, she barters," he whispered, almost tenderly, in the Regent's ear, pushing his face away with enough force to snap his neck, but not yet. This was something he would take his time in: he'd had an awfully long time to plan it. "You for her, when she was always the true prize."

The Abhorsen had heard enough.

Unwittingly, Kerrigor had made things very simple.

She was always meant to be here, but she would not falter, not without a fight.

Lightning quick, she plunged across the gap of stone and table and marble, simultaneously drawing Saraneth, its booming voice sounding deep, deep into the castle walls, and deeper still, down to the reservoir, where the blood had been spilled all those years ago.


	21. Darkness Creeps

After breakfast – which had been berries and crackers, hard cheese, and rabbit, because Nerysiel did not have time to skin a deer and thus treat it with the respect it deserved, much to her laments – Terciel left the cave on foot, with his surcoat returned, to get a better bearing as to their location.

He returned about a quarter of an hour later, and he did not look pleased, frowning.

"We're closer to Orchyre than I realised," he announced.

"Isn't that a good thing?" Nerysiel had asked, pulling him back into the warmth of the cave for his skin felt like ice and winter frost. Even inside, with the Charter spelled warm present, small tufts of clouded breath escaped when they spoke.

Prior to his return, she had been stuffing clothes and blanket and equipment back into each of their packs, her hair still slightly damp from the spring Terciel had found further back in the cave; she still smelled faintly of lavender soap.

"It is, and it isn't," Terciel sighed, not objecting as she drew him further inside, past the Paperwing. "Despite the incident with the Gore Crows, we made good time; but we are not as close to Orchyre as I would have liked to set the Paperwing down."

Nerysiel searched his face, and it was her turn to frown, concerned. "You don't intend to fly into Belisaere."

"No," he admitted. "The Paperwing is too identifiable, and would give us away immediately. The amount of time we would lose to taking to the air, searching for another suitable cave…"

"So we are to walk, thanks to your panic yesterday," interrupted Mogget, the albino dwarf grumbling as he scrubbed the cooking equipment and plates clean with mostly clean water. He tossed the dirty rag into the water, scowling. "Wonderful."

He refused to help in replacing everything into packs and Paperwing compartments, and he brooded against the outside of the cave wall as Terciel, with Nerysiel's assistance, did their best to conceal the cavern's cargo, with a mixture of Charter magic and branches and moss, in the hopes that it would remain undisturbed. 

Then, they had set off, Mogget taking up the rear, where he kicked stones and frequently missed or stubbed his toes, which resulted in hissing - he was acting more like a sulking child than a Free Magic being of countless years, Terciel thought. It was not being helped as, far enough from civilisation, the usual cat was forced to wear a form that would require him to actually, well, walk.

Mogget was still grumbling to himself an hour later, as the weak winter sun climbed to its peak, glinting off frost and dew in the thinning trees. 

The ground beneath their feet had long turned from soil and dirt to soft sand. It was difficult for feet to find purchase, and Terciel and Nerysiel stumbled often, forced to catch one another to prevent falls into scratchy, irritating sand, half-frozen by the cold. Mogget at least, never fell, but his grouching did not abate.

At Terciel's discretion, they gave Orchyre a wide berth, picking through pockets of sand and grass and keeping out of sight of the harbour. Just because the Gore Crows had not succeeded in informing a master, did he want them to be spotted by someone - or something - else in service to whomever was pulling the strings, and for their quiet approach to Belisare to be for naught.

Nerysiel could hear the distant sounds of Orchyre on the breeze, of hammers and shouting and barter, a replica of her memories from the markets at High Bridge, or quieter variants at Chasel. But the liveliness felt very far away, secluded and stolen: hers was another world, and that world was grim, the only thing to be thankful for being that her new boots did not allow sand to leak into every crevice and onto her feet.

She liked them. Though there was certainly a show to them with their hue, similar to the pair she had seen at High Bridge, these were made for excursions and fights, hunting and walking: stability. She had also liked Terciel's surcoat, somehow sturdier and more secure than her father's jerkin, but, she had reluctantly given that one back. The boots were a fair exchange: even if she was still thinking of a way to thank Terciel for them, beyond the simple gratification he likely felt from her acceptance and the fact she continued to wear them.

What was less obvious to her now was where they were headed. She was not familiar with this part of the Old Kingdom, but unless her eyes were misleading her, they were headed towards the sea, which separated the distant walls of Belisaere: those walls she could not see, the city swathed in sea fog save for beyond the tallest of its buildings, the very tip poking out of the cloud bank.

If she remembered rightly, they were north-north-west of Orchyre, but nowhere close to The Narrow Way, the single path of entry into Belisaere. She imagined it was well-guarded and all the discretion they would attain by leaving the Paperwing behind would be lost by mounting suspicion as they made their way into the city overground.

Or would they? Terciel was still walking purposefully towards the sea, either declining to explain or forgetting as he slipped back to forced stoicism to avoid panic that could quite easily overwhelm him, if he thought of their objective too much. It had slipped once, when Nerysiel fell from the Paperwing, and the previous night, when he had allowed it, but now, his focus had to remain attuned.

Nerysiel had never seen the sea, especially not as close as this, but the novelty soon wore off. The tide washed in and out, lapping at feet and ankles, and still they went further towards it. If she did not trust Terciel implicitly, she might have thought him mad.

But as the distance closed and closed and still the tide rushed as they combed the shore, she was compelled to ask just what they were doing.

"Are we planning on swimming across?"

"No," Terciel said, with half a smile. "I'm looking for… well, it's been a while, but there is a path."

They both looked at Mogget, naturally expecting him to object as he did to each and every plan and statement, but at that moment, the swell had taken the curl of his beard and the whitest parts of his hair underwater with it, and he looked sodden and miserable. For them, the hem of their capes and their boots were the only minor casualties: Mogget, like the washed up cat that he wasn't, sallied forward to continue the search as if he couldn't hear them.

"You neglected to mention why you wanted to be close to Orchyre, you know," Nerysiel added, as they began to walk forward, keeping pace with Terciel. "I wasn't expecting a seaside stroll."

He seemed surprised. "I didn't?"

"You didn't," she said back, patiently. The wind picked up, and they took a step closer to one another, turning their faces away from the breeze.

"I thought I had mentioned it," he said quietly. "But clearly not. Have I seemed distant?"

"No," Nerysiel shook her head. "Distracted, I would say. With what is to come, I do not blame you for isolating yourself."

"But not from you," Terciel replied, with earnest. Though his hands were both tucked beneath his surcoat, he removed one, the bitter air biting at his unprotected fingers. But it was worth it, as he reached across to take hers, even wrapped between protective layers of cape.

It was a small, touching gesture, and it said what he was unable to. That part of him feared the worst; that he longed for things to be simpler, not so complicated; that even if he had to focus on saving the Old Kingdom and would wall himself off from everything but his goal, that he did not wish to isolate her.

Nerysiel looked at their hands, held tight, but she didn't say anything: she wanted him to finish, as he casted about for thoughts he was able to put to speech.

"Forgive me, Nelle. Know I do not mean it, however distant I become. Balancing life and the sureness of Death is a challenge, especially when an Abhorsen knows it better than most."

"You needn't ask to be forgiven," Nerysiel replied, sincere. "I understood, and I understand now, that we have something to see through to the end before there will ever be an us. But I stand with you. Please don't forget, no matter what comes."

Terciel nodded, diligent and truthful.

"Not as long as you are here to remind me."

\- - - -

Though it had been frustrating to locate, the path was an excellent timesaver.

Carefully camouflaged, they had not seen it until they were right on top of it - even then, the only indication was the draft around their feet, with a deeper chill than the wind that had already picked up around them.

The path ran parallel to the Narrow Way, but it was far enough that even the spit of land was invisible behind the fog, and deep enough below the Sea of Saere that it had long been forgotten. Though Terciel had no way of knowing what its purpose had initially been, there was a channel of water at the base, with a path on either side – the cut walls of the cavern loomed above, dark and close and grand, a strange type of architecture of their own.

In places the walls had crumbled, and water poured in - seawater with speed and ferocity enough that Nerysiel was surprised this place was not long since flooded and washed away. But no matter how much water trickled or stormed into the channel, it never rose or fell. The quickest, fastest explanation would be the Charter: and her assumption was correct, as she could feel its tingling presence in the channel, the walls, every surface. The air was thick with the Charter, even without individual marks present.

It helped, as whenever she thought about the fact they were beneath a sea – a shallow portion, but nevertheless, they were beneath great volumes of water, walking at a leisurely pace – she wanted to break into a run, but she held back her nerves. She matched Terciel's confident strides, his mood picking up by overcoming his faulty recollection as to where the path had exited outside of Belisaere.

"How many people know about it?" she asked, to fill the silence as they walked and calm the steadily mounting apprehension: once they exited, it would be time, and they would not have much of it before whatever was planned would begin. Even she could sense that.

"That I know of? Nobody, but myself."

"A strange thing for you to know," purred Mogget. Once he entered the tunnel, his movements had become erratic and slowed, and he'd resigned himself back to his smaller form of the cat, which did not seem to have that much trouble - whatever magic was at work here reacted less negatively to his presence as a feline. It also meant he could be carried, so he wasn't that sad about it, since it wasn't as though they would willingly remove his collar. "The Abhorsen has never mentioned it. Or many others before her."

"Have you been here?" Nerysiel inquired.

Mogget shrugged. "Maybe? My visits to Belisaere are few and restricted, you understand. Always with a chaperone… unless my ever reliable friend, complacency, settles in my masters. Alas, I miss the days of Hillfair and the hands-off approach…" Mogget shook his head, dispelling the memory. "…an accidental stumbling on the Abhorsen-in-Waiting's behalf, I suppose."

"Not quite," Terciel said mildly. "It was a secret shared by someone else who had happened to find it. From our own excursions, there were presumably a further exit into the city, somewhere, but the farthest points had long collapsed."

"Is that why the Charter is so thick here?"

"I would imagine so. It was likely cut off from wherever it led, so it grows stagnant, as does any air."

Nerysiel nodded, thinking. "Where do we exit?"

"Close to the streets from the palace, outside the aqueducts, where some merchants still live. There is another exit inside of the aqueduct ring, but we'd lose all the time we'd gain getting to them, and… at the first exit... I know who we will find there. They will be truthful about the state of the city before we… investigate."

"Who?"

"You will see. It's not much further."

\- - - -

They emerged through a drain cover - noisily lifted and more gently replaced, due to a great deal of rust and a smell that only permeated the air outside of the tunnel. The reek was clearly meant to dissuade anyone who thought it as more, or worthy of investigation, as the long passed breakfast of berries and rabbit gurgled in Nerysiel's stomach. But after replacing the hatch, Terciel pulled her away from the odour, and normalcy returned.

She looked around. The street, and the houses that pressed, close together, were empty. She looked up past the doorways and windows to the second stories and each roof; there were signs of repair, poor workmanship with less stellar materials than the original, but if anyone had been by recently, there was no way of knowing.

Many of the windows were boarded, however, and the doors that remained standing were ajar. It was not unusual, then, for this street to be empty. No one lived in these houses, which made his earlier statement about merchants still living here curious. Had he been mistaken?

Terciel did not seem concerned by the street's empty appearance, even as his hand rested against his sword. He let her go – with a spike of reluctance, but it was replaced by the weighing of which bell would be wisest. He settled for the smallest one.

Ranna, Nerysiel knew, having long asked which of his bells had called her to slumber after the attack on High Bridge. The rest were a mystery to her in name as well as means of use and sound; but this was knowledge meant only for the Abhorsens themselves, and she respected it.

What she did know was that Ranna was the sleepbringer, and in a place that was likely prey more to living mercenaries and bandits than Dead things, a better option to avoid unwanted execution. Terciel banished all Dead and stood for all life – if he could, he would try to hold that distinction. The unspoken rule was only broken when he was forced to.

Nerysiel was not as willing to distinguish a target, what with the repeated loss both the living and Dead had given her. But even though she drew her bow from her back, she did not knock an arrow, lightly teasing the string and trusting in her honed reflexes. She would not jump at a shadow.

Terciel scouted in a tight circle, tighter and tighter, making his way back to his partner, and then he waved her forward, into the streets. As they passed doors, Nerysiel noted that some had old, faded insignias upon them, faintly illuminated by dying Charter marks from long forgotten inhabitants.

There was no sound, only the soft creak of timber held between stone, which itself was unnerving. She focused on following behind Terciel, taut for any kind of sudden movement.

As he wound through the streets – hopefully closer to where the population of the city dwelled – that sudden movement came.

But it was not unwanted. Terciel relaxed, replacing Ranna to his bandoleer to still the clapper, but his sword remained unsheathed. Nerysiel was lest trusting, boldly standing beside him to take on the coming threat – belatedly, having stepped beyond her restricted view, realised they were merely two merchants. 

_Possibly_ merchants. She had seen enough trickery in the past few weeks to doubt. Mogget might look and smell and eat like a cat, but even without the confirmation, she knew he was not.

The two people had shadows, which was a good start. They were also smiling. The elder of the two – the mother, she supposed, as she realised with a pang that the woman at her side was near enough an identical, several decades younger copy, sandy haired instead of grey – held up her hands in platitude.

Terciel stepped forward and tested her Charter mark, hidden beneath her hairline. Whatever he felt, it must have been a positive, uncorrupted mark, as he replaced his sword as she tested his. Then, to Nerysiel's surprise, they embraced, with the daughter clapping Terciel on the shoulder.

"It has been a long time, Terciel," said the woman, with a great deal of fondness. 

"Likewise," Terciel concurred, stepping back.

"When you removed the grate, we feared the worst," continued the daughter. "Or, mother did. It was more likely to be you going along the underground passage than anyone or anything else."

"Best to be cautious," Tercial said. "I admit I worried for a moment that I would not find you both here, that things might have gone too far already…"

He glanced back to Nerysiel, who, though he had not forgotten about her, he had once again managed to gloss over information that was somewhat necessary before diving straight into business. The mother and daughter were a rarity – two people he knew very well - and when he regarded the three people beside him so highly, he had forgotten that they were all strangers. In his defence, most of his inner circle were already aware of each other. Introductions were few and far between.

He quickly remedied it.

"Ah, yes. Maeree, Lydriel?" He gestured to the mother, then the daughter. "Merchants, both, descended from goldsmiths. This is Nerysiel, my companion - travelling with me to address matters of great urgency in the capital. And my cat, as you recall."

Mogget meowed, pleasant and a little bit forced. As he had been remembered, he didn't complain.

Nerysiel inclined her head, fractionally. She was not shy by any stretch, but she did feel as though she were intruding. When Terciel had mentioned meeting people that he knew, she had thought they would be acquaintances, passing friendships, and not people he knew well – and not well enough that his guard would be lowered, especially this close to the imminent fall. Could they not be a trap? He was incredibly sure of them.

Neither could she imagine him with a particularly large amount of people he trusted enough to count as a friend, even if his demeanour and charm made him easy to get along with… even if, in retrospect, it made sense that he would be close to the people they were to meet; passing acquaintances did not reveal the locations to secret passageways.

Her thoughts on how they knew each other were interrupted by Lydriel's keen stare and raised eyebrows.

"A friend! I didn't know you were capable," Lydriel grinned, on the same thought track. Her grin reminded Nerysiel of a fox, and it made her all the warier, at odds with Terciel's continued ease. Foxes were duplicitous.

"Lydriel, enough," Maeree chided, and for all Terciel's calm, he seemed embarrassed, shuffling from one foot to the other, a crease in his brow. "A pleasure, Nerysiel. I was a friend to Terciel's parents when they were alive, Charter keep them. Hurry, let us walk. You are both quite safe with us, though I fear it will not be for long."

"Why?" Terciel and Nerysiel asked together, she raising her eyebrows, his attraction drawn away from Lydriel's nudging.

Maeree sighed, turning back the way she came, gesturing for Terciel and Nerysiel to follow; Terciel took her flank, Lydriel took Nerysiel's.

Maeree was a strong, indomitable woman, undeterred by hardship, but the small frown gave away her concern. "Belisaere received word of High Bridge two days hence, and the news has spread. The Regency has not addressed it, little as they address much of anything, these days. Continuous platitudes only carry the people so far. Belisaere is fearful of what might come further north, of what might befall other towns and cities, and there is talk of dissent - of marching to the palace, and demanding an answer."

"Call it what it is, mother," Lydriel wrinkled her nose. "A mob. Complete with pitchforks."

Terciel and Nerysiel looked at each other, exchanging realisation, and subduing a rising sense of panic. Both remembered their conversation at the House, that if the people rose up, it would provide the perfect smokescreen for whom or whatever underpinned the regency's demise. There would be no need to investigate. If the fall had already begun, they were out of time; and potentially too late, even for containment.

"Have they left?" Nerysiel asked. She had hoped she might be wrong about the people placing blame, but it seemed it would not be so.

Maeree shook her head. "Not yet. Sundown."

Looking up, the group was greeted with diluted sunshine, but even interrupted by the slanted buildings, there was not much of the day left. Their pace increased.

"We must follow them. The Abhorsen?" Terciel pressed.

"At the palace," Maeree provided. "Or was, since her Paperwing departed."

"She stayed. She didn't return with it," Terciel said, nodding, but he was not comforted. A location for his aunt was good, even if it were several days old. That the location was the end zone of the mob's intended march was another matter - she might be able to hold her own against hoards of Dead and people, but both at the same time, caught unawares?

No, he was giving her too little credit. Surely she would have made her own conclusions once the news of High Bridge – and his failure to prevent it – had reached her.

"Are there Dead? Necromancers?" Nerysiel compelled both merchants, jumping in on Terciel's ream of questions.

The two merchants seemed surprised at the simplicity in which she treated such a subject matter, for not many did: even they feared it, as was wise, as Charter magic could only see you through so far. Only the Abhorsens had the true means of banishment… but the young woman before them did not sound afraid. Or if she had been, it was emotion long since checked, and it was as though she was ticking items off a checklist, in order to ascertain how worse a situation they had wandered into.

"No," Lydriel faltered. "Not that we have seen. But always likely. The city is in great disrepair and though the official reasons for it differ and the truth is openly denied, parts of the city are abandoned thanks to Dead in occupancy."

"It is that bad?" Nerysiel's eyes widened. Belisaere was larger than High Bridge, true, but she never expected such a worse, ignored, situation.

"My aunt and I have tried," Terciel lamented, sombre. "But an infestation, once present, always returns without a constant watch. Our efforts have always been for the people, for the aqueducts, the places that are still safe. Once they fall… well. The regency does not wish to acknowledge the problem, when the majority of the city is still habitable, still safe - and so it is, and so it will be to our disadvantage."

It pained him, and though walking behind him, Nerysiel felt it, knew the look that would wash over his face and then be chased away, of a good man who was restricted by the fact he could not be everywhere at once. It was an old hurt. To limit the suffering elsewhere, he had to let it slide. 

She wished - but not too hard - that if it were just the two of them, she could take his arm and show that she supported him. Or, that she could do _something_ to help… until she reminded herself that they already were doing something, and she already was helping, by marching through a city full of hate and fear and trying to prevent it from collapse.

They had walked through many labyrinthine streets, never too close to a vacant doorway or a window that wasn't boarded, and finally, Nerysiel could hear distant sounds of life and people. It was still some ways to go, and it was quieter than she expected to hear in a city before dusk even showed itself, even if the city had collective evening plans. If either of their merchant guides were concerned, they didn't show it, with Maeree simply ducking into a building that was less structure and more archways with three standing walls, most of them at a height just above her head. Nerysiel went through the archway third, Lydrial taking up the rear, more accustomed to the streets they were leaving behind.

Once through, there was a great empty space of rubble, from countless buildings, dozens and dozens in a line that, further away, curved into a ring. The pattern was too uniform to be accidental: whatever damage had been done here had been deliberate, leaving behind fragments of stone, the larger blocks and usable parts long since pillaged. 

The gap _was_ the point, Nerysiel realised. A hundred paces or more, with bright sunlight shining down, of dusty blocks, was the road up to Palace Hill's main protection from the Dead that lurked in the streets they had just passed through.

The streets had not been as empty as she had suspected. She suppressed a shudder.

How many had Terciel sensed and ignored, she wondered?

Likely too many… 

… or too few, if their masters had designs for them elsewhere.

Once across this borderlands, the merchant duo relaxed. For Maeree this was visible, a great heave of muscle; and Lydriel, scant, because her posture and crooked smile remained much the same, even if both were fronts. 

The group looped around a four story building, and then another, and then turned along a row once they were three streets deep. Unlike the Dead infested streets they had left behind, each building had anywhere between three to five front doors before being interspersed with a gap of twenty or so paces, some with shrubs in the centre of them that looked a little worse for wear: and largely a wild tangle of branches, given that most had lost their greenness for the winter months.

Also unlike before, there were people, the living: mostly children and a few mothers. The mothers were quick to scurry away at the approach of two strangers accompanying those more familiar, wary for the terrors the night would bring and what role the newcomers would play in it. But there was no one they would be able to tell about it, or inform: the members of the family who would care would likely not be coming home until late into the night. Still, most of the action on the streets came from indoors, where small faces were pressed to windows, watching their passage, because their parents had forbade them from going outside with dusk fast approaching.

The streets were holding their breath, and all four of them felt the burden, familiar with the streets or not.

After several minutes and stops and starts with smattered conversation given that these walls did have ears, Maeree halted outside what Nerysiel assumed was _her_ front door. Or shared front door, given that there was four stories, and she couldn't imagine her living in them all – High Bridge, whilst built into rock going down, had multiple families housed on different levels. However, there were no people to be seen in the upstairs windows, and no lights in any of the windows either for that matter, though that latter was not quite yet necessary. Still, other residents along the row had prepared for the coming dark, so this house was an oddity with every window dark.

Perhaps it was indeed 'Maeree's House', instead of 'Maeree's Floor', but she knew she would not find out the answer, as Terciel stopped shy of the steps leading up to the front door, and she fell into place beside him. Lydriel sidestepped them both, hopping up to the step above where her mother was facing the two she had guided thus far.

"I would invite you inside," Maeree half-smiled, the same crooked smile that always played about her daughter's mouth. "If I knew that tonight was not what you were here for."

"Unfortunately, we must attend," Terciel smiled back, but it was all business. Even though part of him wished it, there was no more time for delays. They had heard what they needed to hear, even if it was not what they wanted - and so the mob, the imminent uprising, would begin soon, with all its hidden Dead trappings.

They had to be there when they reached the palace. That much he knew. If whatever was against him and the Old Kingdom and the Charter was able to use this gathering of its citizens as cover, why could he not do the same? The Abhorsen was the only one known to be here. He would not be expected in the ranks; he and Nerysiel would be the unknown, and if the night was kind, it would be enough. 

He would not fail again. He would save as much of the Kingdom as he could.

Yet, he was worried. He worried as to what other uses these marching people would hold, if those possessed had instigated it; he could not stop them leaving to march, but if he could weave his way through, reach the palace with them, he could prevent whatever was to become of them, what would be _done_ to them. He was almost certain that something terrible awaited the uprising at its final destination.

Were both he and his enemy prepared? Yes. 

Was he also underprepared? Very.

At least he had ten years of experience under his belt. Nerysiel did not. Especially, he worried for her.

But she had made it perfectly clear she would not leave him or turn from what was right, nor turn away from the knowledge of what would befall the Old Kingdom, and that he would never deny her. His worry for her stemmed from the knowledge that, if he had to make a choice of saving her or stopping whomever was behind this and doing what was right, he would willingly break his own heart.

He hadn't told her. But she knew that he was Abhorsen first, Terciel second… that the Old Kingdom would always be first.

He hoped they would not have to test this.

It did not occur to him to think of other opportunities, of future times when his choices would be tested. That bent upon both of them surviving, or only one and not the other, and… too, too many variables. Too many worth thinking about, when today could be the worst of ends for the very fabric of their world.

But for this moment only, he could smile to old friends. Warn them. "Stay inside until morning," he whispered, low. "Prepare for the worst."

He did not identify what, but he did not have to. They had known the Abhorsens for long enough to know what those words meant, and had already guessed. The presence of both Abhorsens, on business? Tonight, something would end, and it might be the Old Kingdom itself. It was not a difficult answer to muster.

"Goodbye, Terciel, Nerysiel," Maeree smiled, sadly. "To better times when we meet again."

It was a sentiment that, even only knowing them an hour, Nerysiel felt she shared. Though she had considered Terciel's circle of trusted allies small, her own was not much larger, not anymore. She had him. Mogget, barely. The Abhorsen herself by association, a figure she couldn't help but paint as indestructible, but had never met; and perhaps other survivors of her village if they lived, that she would likely never see again.

And then these two, two old merchants, and a friendship she might never get to ask about and how it had begun, a story she might never hear but… for once, the knowledge she lacked did not trouble her. Attachment and sentiment was not what she needed right now. It was the man at her side that she was joined to, emotionally, and that was already too much for what was to come.

But she would never regret. Never regret those strings pulled and woven together, even if it brought loss and grief, because it was always better than never knowing - of losing someone before discovering what they might have become, if things were different.

"And you," Nerysiel replied, meaning it. "Someday."

Maeree looked at the two before her. She knew Terciel enough to catalogue his mood by how stationary he was – weary, guarded and nervous, for the most part – and though Nerysiel was a mystery, her stance was similar, and for Terciel to choose her as a companion, she likely felt the same. It was clear to her at least that they were very close, and with that closeness, she had one request.

"Keep him safe."

There was no thought given to Nerysiel's answer. "I will."

"She already has." Terciel's voice was full of warmth. "I trust her implicitly."

"As do I."

It was a private look they shared, but there was no time for any looking away, as it passed. Later. Now was for ushering themselves on, ducking their hands in thanks and walking side by side, away to the road to Palace Hill where they would join the ranks of the mob.

Lydriel watched them go, scratching her arm incessantly. Her mother knew it as a tell, the only chink in her armour to how unsettled she felt. "What now, mother?"

"We wait," she said. "We put our trust in them, the Abhorsen. We remain here for the morning when they will need us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maeree and Lydriel are originals I initially wrote in for pacing (and so I wouldn't end up transitioning ahead again), but they do have a purpose - they're the mother and sister of Terciel's former lover, respectively. 
> 
> I'm contemplating taking them out for the final cut, but they'll probably stay, since this entire chapter wound up with me wanting to write about strapping late teens Terciel and his boyfriend... (maybe I will. He has a name. Maybe someday.) The channel is something I made up, and it connects to the reservoir beneath the palace and runs beneath Belisaere - the path is blocked which is why the Charter is stagnant. And it's not really relevant to _this_ story (but would be if I ever wrote about teen Terciel), so I don't mind divulging that. Who knows what near-the-end-of-November me was thinking.


	22. Fire

They wanted someone to blame.

There was not a name for what they were doing, not truly. It was not treason. It wasn't a monarchy that presided over them, instructed and instilled in blood; it was the Regency, a group appointed two hundred years past. But as the first dissenters pointed out, that was two hundred years ago, and the new had been chosen from the old, and who was to say if they had their best interests at heart? Did that not make them overthrowers?

As the more meagre souls joined the growing lines - the quantity full to bursting in the road that led up to the Palace Hill – they reassured themselves it was not the same. It was not as though they wanted to overthrow the regency. They wanted to be heard, to let it be known that they were frightful and that some indeed were cowardly, only reinforced by numbers. But they would know! They could assign blame! That they had been promised, that had convinced them.

It was just blame. It would be harmless.

Yet tensions were alight, and the undercurrent remained, bubbling just below the surface. Something would happen and the dissenters would take advantage of it, or so they believed. Somewhat would start something, someone would rally, and they might answer the call. Had they not answered it already by being here? It was not treason, but it was uprising.

But there were others who held the advantage of the coming night, as the sun began to set downward, unbeknownst to the people. They held the cards, and the people would be scapegoats. Convenient and taken for use… lambs for the slaughter.

And so the scores of people huddled together and walked, slow and dominating, unaware of their eventual fates, towards the palace.

\- - - -

Terciel and Nerysiel walked faster than the rest of the throng. They had joined the group perhaps a half hour before they had set out, and it had been difficult to gain much ground in that time - now the group was moving, and the individuals closer to the back seemed to be questioning and having second thoughts, it was easier to overtake them.

But they were still not close enough, still too far away to make a difference. As they crested the hill, the first of mob had reached the walls that surrounded the palace, a distant, black swarm. A couple of tall townhouses stood at the top of the hill on either side, but the majority of the space was reserved for a large circular ring – beyond and around the circumference of the ring was the wall itself, grass, and gardens. The circular space was reserved as an entryway of sorts leading up the gates, a parade circle, which might have held carts and horses and nobles in the King's time, and was now rarely put to use.

It was tonight, as the people flooded it. The gate to the palace grounds had long since been dropped, a guard likely tipped off or just a good listener, since what was to come that evening was on everyone's lips - some guards lingered above the parapets on the walls, but they were not going to come down and open said gate, or listen to the crowd's demands. Their instruction was to keep them out, which they would do, as far removed as possible.

The obstruction of the gate also meant the crowd was beginning to stop and falter, and winding between them was growing more difficult. And, as Terciel noted, the space ahead, the circular ring, meant that those gathered were entirely vulnerable. The houses had ceased and the outside grounds would provide no cover, and the houses along the road were perfectly stationed for an ambush… and it was not as though he could see the verges beyond the parade circle. Who knew what Dead skulked in the shadows brought by the night? His sense of Death was warped, continuously close but unable to pinpoint an exact location. There could not be a worse time to stop a potential riot than after dark. The fire from torches might delay a swarm and its rush, but it would not stop a rampage.

Keeping sight of one another also proved difficult. Terciel had almost lost sight of Nerysiel countless times. Though they were unencumbered by their packs, it was also difficult to conceal their weaponry. Nerysiel's bow could be overlooked, for many of the throng were not unarmed - many were not truly citizens of these streets nor from Belisaere, clearly mercenaries and others looking for their latest thrill; their weaponry was crudely hidden. But a bandoleer and a Charter spelled sword were far more noticeable and Terciel did not want to be noticed. He kept up his glamour best he could, and they'd used Nerysiel's same trick in the woods with the rope to try to avoid separation. It worked, somewhat.

As the crowd began to slow and clear ranks began to form, Terciel moved faster, Nerysiel tugging the rope when she found a gap in the flow, where they could shimmy through between tightly knit groups before it was plugged up again. Soon, the sheer volume of people would be too dense to pass through. And, as they both feared, the agitators were likely near the front, and if they so chose to begin the uprising _now_ when they had not yet reached them…

Back here, with the reluctant, the faltering of the march at the gate made the majority nervous, even as they keep pressing forward. It was a collective second thought, a hushed murmuring of voices as they realised that, well, if they could not get in, they might as well turn back around - and for a few seconds, the protest might have been peaceful.

And then the crowd remembered their blame, rekindled their anger, and the shouting started.

The front lines rushed forward, hammering on the gates, and they kept going. Screaming, shouting, as bodies crushed against metal and could not withdraw - some went quickly to Death but even as the first few people fell, the crowds could not stop, _would_ not stop and just kept going, and going, and _going_. Bodies fell to the floor in a bloodied pulp, even if those that came after were disgusted or shocked. It was a rush and it was mindless and Terciel recognised it for what it was.

Influenced.

The hiss gave it a way, the vile odour as fingernails scratched and scrabbled at the walls, trying to break inside, the stench of Free Magic as it compelled people forward, drove them wild with no means to resist. Some stood longer than the rest, playing host to entities and not spell, but eventually they too fell under the sway of the casting sorcerers.

It was chaos and Terciel was still too far away, still too many paces, still too many people between him and there even as they pushed forward and stalled and were mowed down. Those further back could see and taste the Free Magic in the air, those with Charter marks tried to turn away and run, and others still caught the sight of the bodies, but their screams of terror died out in the continuous roar of pounding feet and fists.

And the clicking of bone and joints, as the first of the crushed were brought back in service as Hands, to laboriously continue throwing feet and fist and themselves at the metal barring passage.

Now the guards were shouting, rallying themselves beyond their initial shock as the Dead tried to scale the walls with whatever tool they could find, including each other. Terciel could hear no bells, could sense no necromancer nearby, but they had to be close, safe in Death as they procured spirit after spirit to a ready host. Or had the Dead been waiting in Death, regardless? It was if they had known, a terrifying conclusion, as if they had been pressing against the city, waiting for this opportunity…

The chaos was good for one thing. The people in the march who were further back finally exhibited some sense, driven into action by fear of what was unravelling before their eyes. Where once they had been the minority, now most tried to get away, trying desperately to flee – they scattered and tripped and stumbled over themselves, as well as each other. Blessedly, there came a gap in the pandemonium, and Terciel and Nerysiel rushed through the fleeing citizenry towards the gate that now no longer held the living, and was forcefully being pried apart by decaying fingers, blistered against the spells that kept the gate shut.

Though she had seen Dead before, Nerysiel had not seen the freshly risen. At least, not in the shape of a man or a woman - most Dead changed their hosts, but these were not yet changed, or were changing right now to be better suited for their purposes, right before her eyes. She felt fear flood every vein at their mindless task and occasional shriek, mostly of delight.

Some were not delight, but irritation. Though the Dead were focused, and clearly grateful to whomever had orchestrated this, they were not keen to stay and persist, Terciel noted. They had not been bound to serve, and even in their return to life no one had staked a claim. He knew enough of the Dead to know that this scattered effort could sow discord as the temptation to turn and chase down fleeing life overtook whatever bargain had been made in exchange for a body.

It was inevitable, and some did. Unable to reach through flesh and quantity, the Dead most recently stepping into life paid the gate they were supposed to be destroying no mind - nor the arrows fired by the guardsman, the feeble attempts at Charter magic sent spiralling down to them. Instead they turned towards the people fleeing, gabbling and clapping their hands because this, this would be the difference between their continued stay and a return to the river they so longed to escape.

Except their target was ill chosen, for it was an Abhorsen, and he was ready for them.

Spelled blade cut into flesh that had not yet decayed, that still seemed human, and the scream alerted those behind the unfortunate leader just who they had encountered. The Hands behind swerved, changing tack, heading for the woman at his side who was surely not one, for they did not recognise her, she carried no spelled blade…

But Nerysiel did have arrows. The rope tying her to Terciel was cut with his sword as she reached to her concealed quiver at her side, and her arrows tore through the nearest Dead, making them fall to the floor, impaled and struggling as they writhed and Terciel turned his blade upon them, making their stay in life very short indeed as their chosen vessels could no longer hold them, choked by the Charter which they scorned as much as the man who currently stood against them.

The first wave down, Terciel looked to Nerysiel, who was retrieving arrows from the nearest and trying hard not to look upon the white faces and empty eye sockets. She was disquieted but not shaken, which was as much as he could hope for, and she nodded grimly as they ran towards the gates, which the Dead had successfully managed begin prying apart. 

Soon, a body would be able to pass through.

Nerysiel looked back as they ran, though they were not pursued or followed, for the ranks of the mob had greatly thinned or were laid dead at their feet, and those further back had succumb to their fear and broken their compulsions. 

Or so they should have been. 

"Terciel!"

She choked on a gasp and tugged for Terciel's attention, even as he drew Kibeth from his bandoleer, focused on the pried gate, and it was only his expertise that stilled the clapper as he spun around, distracted.

He saw, even if she didn't point. What had been disarray was becoming organised, and that organisation came from what blocked the road back down Palace Hill, the means of retreat and escape for many. These people, exposed and vulnerable, were of use, but they were of no use if they were able to flee. Cornered, they rushed into each other and dropped to the floor, terrified and frightened, as those that blocked their path were Free Magic masters and necromancers both – the two of them flanked by Greater Dead.

They had come from the shadowed grounds and from the nearest houses, waiting until now to put in an appearance.

Terciel knew that tricks and erosion of the mind would not be what they intended next. These gathered people were here for a great purpose, as tools, and the necromancers would use them, and if they resisted, they would be slaughtered and replaced by more willing servants.

No one would get away.

His eyes widened, and he only had a split second to act.

"Cover your ears!" he shouted. Those closest in the confusion heard it, and some did, too numb to carnage to do anything else but follow a simple instruction. Nerysiel understood it, even if she did not know what command would be called upon, and clamped her hands down hard over the side of her head, bow clattering to her feet - even as she saw Terciel was not following his own advice.

Terciel rang Kibeth at the same time the two necromancers behind the mob rang Saraneth.

It was a horrible cacophony, a violent lurch of limbs as battles of will were lost and forsaken and those nearest to what should have been escape gave up their freedom. Bound, directed, they would do what was necessary, and that meant turning back towards the Palace, and marching to the gates, and through the gates, and on, to show the Regent their anger and hate and fear that they had kept inside for so long, fear of this and what was to come.

Those who had fallen at the feet of Greater Dead, of Free Magic creatures, were spared that service, as their lives were forfeit instead, used to satiate ever hungry appetites, or just to inspire those around them to do as was asked. But it was not necessary; two Saraneth's bound, and that will was stronger, the bells louder, and they would prevail.

Or would have entirely, if not for Kibeth ringing in a practiced hand. Though each Saraneth had volume, the necromancers lacked skill, were novices and likely eager to please whatever master they served. Those nearest to Terciel heard Saraneth, but the notes were not true, and they were not claimed. There was only partial control. But it was still their will that fought the jarred sound of Kibeth's voice, and most lost that fight.

Those that had covered their ears stood a better chance, but very few had kept them there - an indication the necromancer's duel wielding of Saraneth had succeeded. Nerysiel did not watch those around her give up, tried to think of other sounds to drown out the only two voices that had existed, the only two voices she should listen to: even with her hands clamped against her head, she could still feel the direction, the command, that was being given to each and every victim in this ambush, could feel her strength being sapped, and then she could hear Kibeth on top of that, which would only make her skip gleefully whilst doing what was willed of her.

She turned, away from that awful sound of control, a difficult, terrible thing, when compliance was so much easier… and then, after what felt like an eternity, the sound of Saraneth died and Kibeth was all that remained.

She was a tricksome mistress, Kibeth, but Terciel knew how to handle the over keen bell. It had disrupted Saraneth, but it had also carried out his original intent. Kibeth had blocked Saraneth from reaching the Dead who clawed at the gates, and thus they had not been placed under the command of the necromancers and the Greater Dead. More importantly, they had not remained in life. Kibeth told them to go back to the river, and go they went, their bodies and limbs twitching and joyful as they embraced the rapture that would make them go, gate after gate, in a stupor, even as they screamed in their want to go to the other way.

He could not be everything. No one would get away, and in his heart he knew he could never have changed that.

It still wounded him.

And it was hardly a victory. The Dead were pawns, and as they fell, it only meant that he could slip inside the gates there were now opened, unhindered. 

\- - - -

Kerrigor laughed as the hapless peels washed over him, little more than discomfort. As he laughed, it grew louder, and louder still: cutting into any perfect knell, even as the Abhorsen persisted.

"Toys!" he bellowed, as a curved hand glanced across his own set. "Useless against me. You should know better, Abhorsen!"

The Abhorsen smiled, a smile of cunning at successful deceit. It took Kerrigor a moment to place it, but when he did, it was already too late, as his one hand vice was lacking its hostage. Casting about, he could just make out the retreating figure of the regent, crawling towards his freedom.

The bell had instilled a sense of renewed purpose and courage in the Regent, a kind he had never possessed before. He had to escape; that was the most important thing, and he had silently wept as he'd broken his own hand in order to do so, writhing and struggling to pull himself free. He was approaching the safety of the staircase when the Abhorsen stilled the bell, but she did not replace it or take out another, keeping the Walker close, instead choosing to tilt her sword towards her foe once again.

Kerrigor felt a flash of annoyance at being denied his take, a flash of infuriation that she had not deemed to use the bell upon him as he would have expected. It was clever, and he hated other individuals who were clever.

But it did make his adversaries all the surer that they would survive their encounters, which made it all the sweeter when he killed them. Or not, in the Abhorsen's case. He would bleed her dry and break the Charter and take down the rest of her miserable line with it. The Clayr, in their protective icy walls, could rot, for all he cared; they could not hold a Charter alone, could not stop the Dead if they choked back the rivers on his command, burned the Glacier to a melt…

But, he was getting distracted by his epilogue. Now was the hour of his victory and he wished to savour it, even if it meant rearranging his plans - slightly. No matter if the Regent rolled away now, pathetic and disgraced; others would kill him. He would have liked to, but his true opponent had appeared… and _what_ an opponent she was.

"Impressive." He said, without malice; his words were like a quiet, sordid embrace in the dark. 

The Abhorsen did not flinch, spinning her blade and catching the hilt in her hands. To relax, mainly: the trusted metal was soothing beneath practiced fingers. 

"Cooperation," she said, blankly. "If I were to face you, one of us would have to let him go."

Kerrigor's shadowy form strayed, even contained in his human falseness. "I am curious how you will try to stop me."

Her gaze narrowed. 

"Good."

She had no other words for him.

Very deliberately, she replaced Kibeth in her bandoleer and pulled out Saraneth, a clear demonstration of her will.

If he were able, Kerrigor would have raised an eyebrow at her subtle rebuke.

The Abhorsen had her reasons. What point was there in delaying an inevitable fight? None. 

He was patient, reluctant to destroy her, because she had a use; but he would kill her, however much time that would take. He would try to take her, and she would not allow it, and she would not allow him to manipulate her with words in the meantime. If he was so curious as to how he would be stopped… well, he would see, for she would show him. It did not matter how this had come to be, how so many future lines had tangled themselves, how it seemed that this was always meant to be; her, here, at this moment, for this fight.

It only mattered that she _would_ fight.

And if she did not seal him away, Terciel would. That she was sure of. She had taught him well.

Kerrigor, in turn, realised that she was not one to mince or waste time with lavished words. Well, that made things easier; she would go, minutes from death, as long as there was yet blood inside of her.

If that was how she wanted it.

He lifted one hand, gesturing at the table that separated them. He cast his hand towards the wall, and the table followed with a slam, an indent into stone; a better stage left for their showdown.

An even better stage was a shuddering floor, violently bouncing as if hit by an earthquake and cracking in a zigzag line down the middle as the whole thing plummeted to the throne room below. All the Abhorsen had time to do was adapt, and hold on; the force threatened to drop her to the ground, and would surely have shattered her knees. Her seconds of time were spent on a shout and the call for several Charter marks that would still her feet, fragmented marks of protection… and the bitter hope that the ground would be kind.

It wasn't. Pain hit her first, followed by the blinding numbness and the clicking of her own joints and ringing in her ears. She had survived, barely. But it was not all her own doing, the fall never meant to kill her, and the ground was slick with Free Magic. It was all around; should she reach for Death, wanting or otherwise, she would be denied and held back by invisible chains.

It was a good defence, for Death would be the battleground of her choosing, should she have her way.

Dust choked Saraneth in her hands, but she kept it from sounding of its own wanting, for such an awry sound would make this a very short fight indeed. She replaced it in her bandoleer, now useless.

Brick and stone and timber created a rising fog, thick and choking, disorientating and making her blind - indoors there was no real wind to conjure, and even though it made Kerrigor invisible, it had blessedly made her the same. She had precious seconds to move. 

Limbs protesting from the two story drop, she stood, sword low at her side as she peered into the mist and gloom, for any sign of the dark figure that was her foe.

She heard him without seeing him, heard the scratching of a blade against stone, an awful, nail biting sound. It was of no metal she knew, and many times more a shrieking, screaming pitch than it should have ever been able to reach. It was to her left, than her right, and she knew he was circling her, biding his time. Able to see or not, he would lunge about in the fog should he hear her breath.

The Abhorsen breathed deeply, quiet as she could, listening to her senses that were alight, the only thing undamaged by the fall. Kerrigor was long dead, and she knew he was here. If she attuned herself enough, she could find him by instinct alone, or evade his advance.

She chose not to evade, but she did hold her ground. There was a pillar to her left, cracked under the punishment of a floor collapsing - but it was holding, and any seasoned Abhorsen was wise to use their environment, even one manmade. The ground was chipped marble and the rubble had dispersed away from her, giving her a flat surface in which to fight. She exhaled her held breath, listening, feeling, waiting, and never quite outwitted.

Still Kerrigor stalked, hidden from sight. Close, closer, close enough to-

He was behind the pillar.

She swung her sword of golden light in a mighty arc one-handed, the motion vibrating through honed, tired muscles as she struck nothing - save to catch the tip of a neck that had no flesh in which to sever.

Kerrigor felt it, though, reeling backward as his black stuff leaked from the spot that had been sheared away. The Charter ate away at his carefully crafted form, and his head lolled, suspended by half a neck and not a full one. Fury roared white hot in his eyes. It was time he was not willing to spare to fix that presentation of himself, time better spent in subduing his foe who still believed this was a fight she could win, but it did not bother him any less.

Or did she think this a fight she could win? Cornered and without mercy, she was extremely dangerous, and would surely be a frightful delight in her final moments - not placid and believing, _never_ trusting, not like his sisters and his mother… this execution would take time, but he had given enough time that he could wait a little more. He would spare no expense in his revenge against the people who had sealed him away, ever to suffer… only he was stronger for it, but still, they would pay.

Sky leaking from his neck, Kerrigor's blade met the Abhorsen's as she struck forward with another slash, the symbols of her blade keen to continue their job, having already once tasted triumph. It was a mighty clash, reverberating across the room as he pushed her sword away with a flick of her wrist and she gave ground, away from the pillar, drawing him out into non-murky light, and he followed, prepared to wear her down.

Again and again he struck, and she parried each blow, predicting them almost, in an intricate dance. She never stayed in one place long, spinning her way across the floor, ducking low, aiming high, but with each parry she grew weaker. Not by much, but he could feel her tiring; stuck in an aging body, she was not as nimble as she once had been, and that was her restriction. 

He would never tire, never crumble. He was beyond such living inconveniences.

The Abhorsen, however, was nothing short of strong. She matched Kerrigor's inhuman strength beat for beat, with much take and gain, glimpses and options flying about the part of her mind not steadfast on the fight. She knew she was not unstoppable, knew that she would make mistakes if this continued, if she did not do something radical and different.

The Abhorsen's free hand dipped into the Charter as she dodged away from another blow, spell conjured in her grasp. Kerrigor noticed: but he too was only allowing idle thoughts to wander away from crushing her beneath his sword, and she would not give him time to riddle out what she was planning to do next. When her subsequent parry, she placed her hand against her blade, and the golden marks flashed, enthused and infused, and that was what broke his grip on his sword.

Even made from Free Magic - which dulled the Charter sword with every hit as it absorbed that corruption - it could not stand against an additional, unexpected spell, something highly unorthodox. Though she had reached for marks to increase the sword's efficiency, she had also reached for marks of cold and numbness, marks for sightlessness and blizzard, marks of ice and freezing. Such marks came easy to those who spent so much time in the river of Death.

The marks transferred from her blade to his, leaping along the almost liquid dark surface with an eerie blue glow that shone as bright as the sun, as bright as stars, and Kerrigor's grip had slackened. It had made his arm tense, slow, begin to freeze, him slipping backwards in life, but also slipping to a place even chillier than his current predicament.

He snarled, a low, unearthly thing, even as his fingers spasmed and betrayed him, wanting to let go but not quite able to. The Abhorsen cut against what passed for his hand, a mark of Charter fire blooming bright across his hand and wrist, hated and repulsed, and more blackness began to leak from his now uncooperative, disjointed hand.

Kerrigor's neck fumed, angry and taught. She would chop him up piece by piece and that wretched Charter would slowly eat away at his perfection. She was far stronger than he had anticipated. He should not entertain her with a slow, lingering death and a worthy stage. He should take her now.

The shadowed sword clattered to the ground, muffled as it vanished, uncalled for. His wrist was useless, but he would not need it.

The Abhorsen backed away from Kerrigor as his sword vanished, hands fumbling unseeing for a bell. Saraneth was useless, Kibeth was not strong enough to take him, Ranna would not hold him; Mosrael, Dyrim, Belgaer…

Her hands lingered on Astarael. She did not plan to ring it, but if she had to, she would.

Not yet.

But this, too, Kerrigor saw, and what passed for panic crossed his featureless face, eyes growing wild white and golden and blue, corrupted by ice in his shadowy veins and the brightness of Charter fire. If he had been contented to wear her down, now he was not – he knew Abhorsen's well enough to know it was not an empty threat if their fingers dallied around Astrael's bulk. Long fingers did not think for his sword, but instead reached for his own bandoleer and Kibeth. The Abhorsen would kneel under his will and follow him to the blasted reservoir, and the Great Charter Stones would be destroyed once and for all.

And if she would not perform, there was Ranna, or a multitude of servants who would relish the chance to carry the Abhorsen they so feared, servants who were gathering outside, just out of reach, if all had gone to plan. There might be some dissent. They would be just as happy to sap her life, but her life was forfeit to him and tearing down the Charter, and that legacy would not be challenged.

But as the Abhorsen's hand tapped against the bound Astarael, a clear message sent to her onlooker, she thought of other plans. She needed to take the advantage; she needed to make her own battleground, and if ever there was to be a time, it was now.

Her battlefield was her birthright. If he wanted her in a certain place in life, she would simply have to remove herself from life and cross into Death… and take him with her.

Crossing to Death was easy, easier than most thought. All individuals were capable of it; it was only ever a matter of waiting for the moment of their death before they knew how to cross the threshold.

She could cross at will, whenever she wished, as could Kerrigor. It was not a matter of crossing alone. It was a matter of ensuring he crossed _with_ her. So many years imprisoned, he would not go quietly. No bell would take him there, not alone; if she went alone, he would take her body and drain it dry and that was the opposite of a solution. No, they had to go together. She had to make sure he would not return.

Ice flecked against her fingertips, frost reserved into the crossing into Death. She breached herself against the border, but she did not go.

She reached beyond the Free Magic constraints, and _pulled_.

Kerrigor swung Kibeth.

But it did not sound.

It clanged, a long distant forgotten note, a note shrugged off as nothing more than an insect pest. The bell was freezing over, was frozen still, and his hands tight with it. He could not let go, could not replace it, even as he shook his head wildly, unwise and unsafe, but the bell still did not sound and his curved talons for fingers bent against each other and contracted as the ice took them as well, encouraged by that which was already placed into his body.

It was not just him. The ice on the Abhorsen's fingers had reached her hands, was travelling up her arms, had started into her boots and winded intricately up her legs. Kerrigor's stubby feet, too, shared the same fate as the temperature grew colder - whispy breath exhaled from one mouth and the fires in Kerrigor's eyes dimmed as the freezing fog intruded, as his very marrow clicked together, forever unmovable. 

Ice spread between them, across the floor, around the pillar and up to what left of the ceiling, colder and colder and it reached his chest and his breathing slowed, and he felt the river at his ankles.

If he would not go, she would bring Death to him. 

To them both.

Kerrigor struggled, but the Abhorsen did not, welcoming what she had summoned and called for. It was an old trick. Insensible. Unwise. Foolish. But it would swallow them both, and if she teetered into Death itself with her body frozen solid, well… she would be an unusable vessel of blood if she were already dead before the breaking.

She had to hope… no, it would not matter. If Terciel arrived here in time, she would be saved. And if not, then she would bind and take Kerrigor with her, no longer inhibited by the want to live, the want to not yet ring Astarael.

Limited options, but this was a way, and she would take it, no time to think, even before she frosted over and her eyes closed.

But it was not the last thing she felt. Struggling, stumbling, tripping over the cascade of ice that had enraptured him, Kerrigor's breath, hot and metallic, hit her face, and a talon punctured her skin, and touched against a slowed heart.

And it was like that they froze, through cold and meltwater and the fog at their feet, the ice finally swallowing them both, inches thick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight scenes remain my achilles heel.


	23. Ice

Though they had sped across the grounds and were distracted by running, it would have made anyone hardened jump at the proximity of the cheer, the force of its strength as the mob finally wrestled the gate apart.

Now, it truly _was_ a mob: chaotic and out of control, sweeping through broken metal and cascading over lawns. An infestation. Some of the living carried torches, and it did not take much for Nerysiel to guess what they were planning to use those torches for.

Exhausted, she and Terciel stumbled to a halt, no longer able to keep up their gruelling pace. 

This was going from bad to worse. As Terciel took stock of the torchbearers and the gaggle of Dead snarling at their feet, heading parallel into the palace, it struck him once again that he could not stop them all.

"What do we do?" Nerysiel managed, between breaths. If there was a way out of this aside from destruction, she could not see it.

Terciel did not answer. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't. There was too much, all of it happening all at once; the Old Kingdom had been more fractured and susceptible than he realised, and those he was supposed to defend them against would use those same citizens to tear the Old Kingdom apart. He had no answer to give her.

He truly didn't know.

He might have been prepared, but now he was directionless. Aimless. It was one thing to be prepared, but another to face the inevitability of it, with minutes to spare. What could they possibly do? Was there even anything to do? The deed had been done, and they had been too late.

He could slay the Greater Dead and the necromancers with them, but that was not the heart of the problem. The people would still pillage and destroy even as he fought to break their respective compulsions.

He could focus on the people, but the necromancers would only replace them with newer, fresher faces. They might even dare to cast their net out into the city, and more innocents would be involved.

But he could take neither option. There was only one path open to him.

He had to focus on the transition.

As far as his addled mind could think, there were two things unaccounted for - his aunt, and the orchestrator of current events. So well planned, and if the Abhorsen were occupied, with the Dead knocking at the front door of the palace, she…

It was viable to conclude that whomever was behind the fall was here, in Belisaere. Somewhere in the palace, _with_ his aunt… it was the only possible, powerful thing strong enough to forcefully keep her and her intervention away.

Which meant he had to find her.

Now he had direction, and now they would have to move.

"We have to find the Abhorsen," he choked out, straightening up, their brief, momentary respite over. "Whatever is doing this has to be here, and she facing its might. Where else would she be?"

For that he did not desire an answer, even as Nerysiel looked at him glumly, with… it wasn't pity, but it was a forlorn look, a doubt, because what would stop a force such as the Abhorsen but the finality of her trade?

He did not think on it, turning on his heel and loping away towards the interior of the Palace, entrances he could scarcely remember from formal visits long ago. His aunt was here, he knew it, he just had to find her, and if something Dead was behind all this, he just had to focus on it, and only it, and the way would reveal itself to him.

And, if he found her, she would know what to do, said a quiet voice in the back of his mind. That too, he ignored. He was not useless, he would not fail again - they would come out of this with some semblance of the Kingdom intact, its orchestrator banished… even if he did not know who that could be, did not know why Belisaere was the target.

He'd had so long to think about this, but with so much to think about suddenly narrowed and added to, there was no time left at all.

Terciel pushed onward, reaching the walls and almost colliding with them with the pace he had set, but he dare not let up; that morning spent without a care under a blanket with Nerysiel felt very far away, lifetimes ago, and rest would not come any time soon. 

Slipping inside was easy, once he found a door. Most of the guards had abandoned their positions when the gate had been overtaken, and once inside, the thick walls of stone around them made it was easier for Terciel to put the mob out of his mind. His parting look at the Dead and torchbearers had been them spreading out, their efforts diluted, as they left the immediate area of the gate – off to do whatever task had been put upon them, that they had been inspired to perform. It was inevitable they would do some damage. It was inevitable that the torches would be put to use. 

But he still couldn't deal with them, not right now, if ever.

Nerysiel jogged beside him, keeping up with his harried, mentally detached pace. Their destination – unknown place, determined person – was all either of them had in mind. She trusted him to lead, and he for her to follow.

Terciel's time in the palace had been fleeting, and even now, he moved on instinct, and feeling, not even based on what his senses of Death were telling him. But with each step forward, if that felt particularly bad and foreboding, then he kept taking it.

They moved outside through a long abandoned and overgrown courtyard, through an empty pantry with the stove still lit, through a banquet hall with tables still laid, and saw no one. It was only as Nerysiel reached out to the frame of a door that Terciel hesitated, pulling up in unidentified alarm – and for Mogget, who had been asleep as was his right in all non-Abhorsen related emergencies, to open one beady eye and clear his throat.

" _I_ wouldn't open that, if I were you."

Nerysiel's hand, poised above the doorknob, hovered, as she didn't put it past Mogget to play her for a fool. "Why ever not?" she challenged, more inquisitive than annoyed; it was Terciel she looked at, and his furrowed brow, as he reached an understanding of what exactly had made him stop. That expression was what made her step back away from the door, question notwithstanding and unanswered.

"This is it," Terciel supplied. "She's on the other side."

Their swift pacing here was done and now hesitation bit at his heels instead as dread ebbed at his senses. He was used to feeling Death, forever pressing and teasing against the invisible barrier as was his duty, but even this felt particularly wrong. He didn't know what they would find through that door, and he wasn't so sure that he wanted to find out.

Nerysiel lacked those senses, but even as she gave the door a second glance, she suppressed a shudder. It was innocuous, just a door like any other - well gilded and golden in sunlight and not made up of murky greys in the unlit room's moonlight, and yet… the more she looked at it, the more she felt…

Well, exhaustion was one of them. Tired, cold… that she should curl up unto herself, and sleep…

She swayed, just enough to snap her back to wakefulness, though that might have been thanks to Terciel's hand on her wrist. There was warmth there, not found from his skin, perhaps not even from the grounding spell he'd instinctually performed to call her back. It was _him_ , what made _him_ , that made her stay – a feeling, as bizarre a sensation as it was.

Nerysiel looked at Terciel, puzzled, but his face was well guarded. He'd seen her begin to topple, knew the vacant look in her eye; had felt it a thousand times and witnessed it just as many. It only affirmed what he already knew, what he only now subconsciously had to fight. 

"Careful," he whispered. Then he half smiled, gentle, more himself. "That's only the first wave."

"Was that…"

"It's Death," Mogget interjected. His fur was bristling. "And it shouldn't be here, unless someone was enough of a fool to bring it. Diluted and slipping away, its purpose fulfilled. The space remembers. It will not go back so easily."

"Why would she-" Terciel began to ask, and then decided against it. No, there was no use in theorising. There was no time for it: and besides, the answers were on the other side of the door. Whatever reason the Abhorsen had summoned Death for… it would not take them if they entered the adjacent room, though they would have to remain wary. If Death was already beckoning, it would sing on the other side of the door. Stepping from one realm to the next would be far too easy, as tricky as that river could ever be when presented with an opportunity and two living souls ripe for the taking.

" _How_ could she do that?" Nerysiel asked, but she wasn't addressing him. She was looking at Mogget.

Mogget's eyes twinkled in the gloom as he blinked, feigning ignorance, but Nerysiel didn't look away. Even Terciel adjusted himself to stare down at the cat on his shoulder as the claws against his gethre slackened, then gripped all the harder.

It was a very prudent question. In theory, yes, an Abhorsen calling forth Death _seemed_ possible, but… actually being able to do it…

That was as much a mystery as to the Abhorsen's gift itself, Terciel thought.

And did he want to see what his aunt had wrought? What warranted such an undertaking?

"Time is short," Mogget said at last, regarding his master as the silence stretched out. "Open the door. Find out for yourselves… and don't mind how I look."

Nerysiel and Terciel exchanged a worried frown at that last part, but said nothing as the cat resettled himself, poised, around Terciel's shoulders. On the cue of a quiet nod, Terciel reached out and opened the door.

\- - - -

What had once been the throne room was gripped in ice.

It spun around the remaining pillars, up and over debris, clung to the last of the choking smoke that had come with the room's collapse. Now it was a monument to winter, a place caught out of time as well as place.

It felt as unnatural as it looked. Nerysiel had faced harsher temperatures than this but those did not seem to eat away at her bones, leech at her spirit, and nor had each step been made with sheer tenacity. She could catalogue it away that the ice itself lacked the necessary footing, which made crossing it a challenge – but truthfully, she knew that wasn't it. 

The night and the risen moon struck a claim on the icy domain through windows and half tumbled walls, casting eerie, glinting shadows as they walked across the room, towards where the thrones would be if they were not splintered and buried beneath rubble. There was an easy focus there, and that was with the towering column, a thick sheet of still spreading ice that wound round not one, but two occupants.

Terciel reached it first, several metres separated from his aunt as he cautiously reached out towards the ice, retracting his hand as soon as he'd done it. The ice wasn't really cold – all it really radiated to him was the familiarity of Death – but the movement had been instinctual, and also useless. It was an emotional slip in his pretended confidence. There would be no reaching his aunt through something so thick to tap her awake – she had gone into Death, _willingly_ , to take her charge, and she would not come back until her quarry was defeated and dead for good.

And her quarry was not, not yet, as she was not alone in her statue. As Terciel was drawn to his aunt, Nerysiel, not wanting to intrude, focused on the Abhorsen's pursued. Nerysiel couldn't quite decide if the thing's position – poised above the Abhorsen's body as if to strike – weighed in its favour, or not. It could be equally an act of fear as well as a final blow. From this distance, it was difficult to say.

Her eyes roamed the thing. It didn't look much more menacing than other Dead, but it was much taller – it reminded her more of the recently deceased corpses they'd had to cut down at the castle gates, which wasn't a thought she wanted to linger with, but it was too fresh-faced, too human somehow, yet it was also… off. As if a not very good artist had drawn a likeness of a person from memory, having not looked upon another person in a very long time. The visage was riddled with small mistakes - a nose too high and cheek bones protruding too much and also too little, rotted leather and flecks of flesh around the black stuff where the artist had not bothered to paint in the details - and where the eyes should have been were entirely vacant.

If she remembered rightly, that would be where Free Magic fires would burn if the husk was occupied. It was a small, small blessing that it wasn't, and she felt a shiver that was unrelated to the icy air trickle down her spine.

Much to her own morbid fascination, she kept looking. It was not often that she looked safely upon something Dead. Her eyes roamed across its bulk. Dead eyes and a lopsided jaw sat upon a recently detached neck. Towards the Abhorsen, skeletal fingers, wicked and curved. Something across its chest that was not part of its presentation of a human self, which could be-

No, she knew that shape well enough. It was a bandoleer, a bandoleer for the thing's bells.

A necromancer.

The coldness seeped into her limbs as she imagined it turning towards her with eyes of white fire.

 _Remembered_ it.

Nerysiel took a step back, involuntary, wanting to collapse to the ground and pinch herself and scream until she woke up, until her father found her and this was all a dream.

It was not a dream. 

It was _him_. Her dream had not been wrong. This was him. The necromancer that would kill her was not Terciel after all, but _him_ , the one silent and still before her now.

Terciel was looking at the shadowy creature too, recognising it for other reasons. For all the stories he aunt had told, for all the Greater Dead this could be, there was only one name that sprung to his lips.

"Kerrigor," he mumbled, loud enough for Mogget to hiss violently - an affirmation, as far as he was concerned - and for Nerysiel to surprisingly start shaking at his side. He hadn't seen her step back, but as her teeth began to chatter and she gripped her hands so tight they went a whiter shade than his own skin, it would have been impossible to miss.

He reached out to her, pressing his hands over hers, all attention lost to the imminent task at hand. "Nerysiel, love? What is it?"

She still quaked, even under the security of his grip. "It's _him_ ," she managed, but it was not enough, wouldn't make enough sense to him, even as he ran a thumb over the back of her hand, something to focus on. Her words tumbled out, disarrayed. "I thought… I thought it was you. In the woods, behind the village, I had this dream, and in it I had always… seen… a necromancer, and he would kill me. I thought it was you. It was never you. It was him. It's going to be _him_."

She couldn’t look at Kerrigor, ashamed, even as Mogget raised an eyebrow.

"You've had a recurring nightmare of your death at a necromancer's hand for how long, and yet here you are, bonded with one?"

"Mogget!" Terciel commanded his silence, voice loud and echoing about the room.

His bellowed name was to tell him to have a care, but Mogget didn't obey, pressing further. "In dreams? _Only_ dreams?"

Nerysiel nodded, not trusting herself to speak or even to open her eyes, should the thing wake and prey upon her. It was not quite an irrational fear, just an unlikely one – and this particular fear had spent years embedding itself, because it was also a truth.

"Interesting," Mogget licked his lips. "A splintering of the Sight. Not unheard of. To see your own death… even the Clayr don't see their demise. How… unfortunate," he decided, but he didn't sound apologetic.

"I haven't seen it since," Nerysiel attempted, struggling not to choke on her words or the crippling tremors as her legs still threatened to give way. "Not since I met Terciel. Everything fit… everything. Everything, except for how he looked, and I… the warning had been given. And I knew, when it happened, how to outwit it. The situation was right and I thought it was done! That it was over!"

Terciel remembered. He remembered how he had felt humbled, how she had apologised, how nothing could have prepared him for being here now, together. It was just… now he understood what had driven her to that edge, for her to try and kill him.

He knew how he could fix it. But he didn't know what to say to help her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, quietly. It was for the woods, what she had almost done. "I'm sorry." The second was because they didn't have much time, and she was stealing it from him, from them, from the Kingdom.

She had to be brave; she had to move past this.

And so she did. She stemmed the fear, shut it away, banished the quaking of her boots and the numbness in her arms and legs. She opened her eyes and stared, fleetingly, at the thing that was ' _Kerrigor_ ' and put him from her mind. He would not control her. He had no power over her. The Abhorsen was in danger and Terciel was the only one who could help; he had to be there, in soundness of mind, and she could not fear Kerrigor now.

Later, perhaps, but not now.

Terciel watched as she straightened herself and recovered, searching her face as it went suspiciously blank. She was retreating… pulling away, and not unwisely, but he didn't want to let this pass. He didn't want to let her go.

She deserved her sorry's to be soothed, for a moment of despair, for the two of them to figure this out, together, as he wanted, as he wished he could promise… but she wasn't going to get it, not because he wouldn't give it. If she desired it, he would remain, be distracted, and his lover was not a fool. She knew. An aftermath of reassurance paled to the assurance she needed _now_ , and that thought counted on there being an aftermath.

This, they both knew, might be the last time they ever saw one another with a moment to spare, for him to show that her fears did not count for nothing in the face of everything else. He could only give her seconds and it would never be enough.

So instead Terciel wrapped his arms around Nerysiel's quietened shoulders and kissed her, hard and brief, to say all that he could not.

Not just him. She reciprocated. 

Everything that couldn't be said, that had to wait on a later that might not come, was in that kiss, and the second later when they broke apart. That was all the time they had left, and Terciel knew he must ask the worst of her.

He exhaled through his teeth, feeling a fake confidence in his voice that he hoped would pass through to his forthcoming actions.

Terciel took Nerysiel's hands in his, not meeting her eyes.

"I have to go into Death," he breathed, impossibly quiet in such a large room. "My aunt – the Kingdom – needs the Abhorsen-in-Waiting to follow through on the Abhorsen's wishes. And her wish was for a battleground she couldn't find in life."

At least, he assumed that battleground was her intention - there had to be more to her summoning of Death itself. It was not as though she weren't a master of their craft, and the lack of bell in hand told him it was deliberate. She had taken Kerrigor to Death on purpose, the only high ground left to her, and Kerrigor could not go about his plans in life.

Terciel wished, in that second, that he knew more of Kerrigor just beyond the stories, knew of his plans, had known long ago when he and his aunt had been sat in the dining room back at the House – now all he had was a slight advantage over a powerful Dead as he was an unknown quantity. At least he hoped he was unknown, or that his arrival would be unexpected.

Now for the bad news, what he did not want to ask of Nerysiel with the object of her nightmares frozen so close by. Terciel looked up, into her eyes.

"There is no time for us to cast a diamond of protection."

No time for a cascade of golden marks to protect his body, to protect her should Kerrigor burst to life. Should the Dead reach the throne room, should the fires of the citizenry spread, there would only be one defence, and it would have to be her. She would have to defend them both… and though he didn't doubt her, knew of Nerysiel's skills in the hunt and with a bow and her aptitude for learning, she had never faced anything like it.

And he was leaving her to face it alone, without the boon of the Charter nor a shield against a known onslaught, something he himself would not dare do if in her position. He didn't spare a thought for himself, or the trust that he was to place in her to have her as his first and last defence.

Though her face, frozen in bravery, did not change, Nerysiel did feel the bile rise in her throat at what that meant. 

Her reply was short. "I understand."

"If I could…"

Nerysiel placed a finger over his lips.

"It's alright, Terciel," Nerysiel whispered, her gaze more focused, more true that it had been. "I know. Do what you have to do. I'll be here."

He smiled, strangely warm in such a still, cold and terrifying place. "I know," he replied. He gave her another of their precious seconds with that gaze, then pulled away, but not before Mogget leapt from his shoulders and danced around Nerysiel's ankles, his fur hotter and biting like sparks from a roaring fire than the soft down it usually was.

"I'll wait here," he said - the most decisive he had been in some time, and without his usual scorn. "One of us that remains in life should know what they're up against." If either his owner or partner had felt up to it, they might have analysed his change in attitude, but the statement only earned tired nods.

Privately, Mogget also didn't really want to go into Death with Kerrigor there, but he wasn't about to voice that part aloud.

Terciel picked his way around the ice wall that was the Abhorsen and Kerrigor, as close to his aunt as he could get, beckoning Nerysiel to follow. He crouched down beside the make-shift monument, internally lamenting that it lacked in cover aside from scattered debris around the ice… but he would have to leave life and the troubles there with Nerysiel for now. He experimentally reached for Death – shockingly easy, as if his aunt had burned a barrier she should not have, and pulling away was frightfully difficult, near impossible. There had been magic here once to prevent passage either way – long cast and enforced by the Kings of old – but this was something else. What his aunt had wrought was… not so much a one way trip, but a corruption. Where they were now was closer to the river, to Death, than the riot happening outside in life.

"If you need me, tap my shoulder," he instructed, all business. 

"I will," she said, crouching down alongside him. "Good luck."

"And to you."

He gave a parting smile, and was gone.

It was a strange feeling to find herself so incredibly without him, and so alone.

Nerysiel bunkered down as the frost began at Terciel's fingertips and closed eyes, spreading over his body – with what was already around her, it didn't surprise her. What was a surprise was the colour red, a tiny blot in the corner of her eye at the epicentre of the statue. 

Encased in the ice around the Abhorsen and the necromancer that would be the one to kill her, stemming just above the Abhorsen's heart–

Red. 

Blood red.


	24. Fifty Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you: rems you gotta stop posting 8k chapters  
> me, twirling my moustache: nah  
> (also i can't believe it took me 84k words to go into death, in a fic about death, about a series of those who walk in death, i mean, really)

Death was quiet, and grey.

The river swirled around his ankles, a temptress without a body as the eddies coaxed him to trip, to stumble, to make his march toward the truest of ends in the moment of his arrival. If he were a novice still, without ten years of experience, the river might have won itself a few steps at most.

Now, it earned none, as the current aimlessly tugged at Terciel's ankles. He would be going nowhere without his consent – but he would be marching forward with a purpose.

Wherever his aunt and Kerrigor were, they were not in the First Precinct. An endless grey horizon was the main feature here, and nothing stirred nor moved. There was no babbling of a brook, no trickling of water over his feet. 

Just ear breaking, nail biting, silence.

As practiced as Terciel was, he was wary enough to allow reluctantly given seconds to confirm what his senses were already telling him – that there was no one, and nothing, here. He adapted, he counted, then moved forward at a harried pace. There wasn't a lot of time, and time was a peculiar thing, in Death. However long his aunt had been frozen out in life… he doubted it was more than an hour at most… she might have been fighting far longer than that, here in Death.

Fighting. As he walked towards the Gate, Terciel drew his sword, Charter symbols shimmying across its length as the blade woke itself from slumber, and with deft practice he released the clasp for Saraneth, turning the bell upside down with the rest of his fingers stilling the clapper so it wouldn't sound out of its own accord. Saraneth was a mindless choice, and not for Kerrigor – no, it was for other Dead that might be lurking about once he passed through here, drawn by the fight of two powerful beings, and the hope the victor would be favourable of them, meaning they would be less than likely to keep to their usual caution and shadows.

Fortunately for Terciel, Death was unusually empty. Most of the dwellers that had been here were out in life at the place he had left behind, heading towards Nerysiel in exchange for the bodies they had been granted – and truthfully, it sickened him. He should have dropped them all before coming here. His aunt would be displeased with him.

He hated having to make those kind of sacrifices. To have to choose the needs of the Kingdom over the needs of those in front of him… but he had to. 

In whatever Kingdom would come after the regent, Kerrigor could not be part of it. That much was paramount. If he kept reminding himself of that, perhaps he would feel better about his choice. 

He didn't.

_Focus_ , Terciel reprimanded himself, stilling his wayward thoughts as he reached the waterfall that was the First Gate. He figured that if his aunt and Kerrigor were to be anywhere, it would be the Second or Fourth Precincts. Though he didn't put it past his aunt to hold back the waves of the Third Precinct indefinitely, it would not a good place to whittle down the will of something as strong as Kerrigor if her attention was split.

Part of him hoped they were further – Kerrigor forced to walk and bound – but he knew better. As unstoppable as the Abhorsen was, even she had limitations, and Kerrigor was one of them. The fall had been his doing. The queen and her daughters had been killed at her hand and the Charter had weakened. That much he knew. The Abhorsen would try, yes, give it her best shot, but to succeed, he had to hurry and _be there_ and give her a much needed edge.

Hopefully.

The Free Magic curled around his tongue and burnt his lips as he spoke the words to part the endless waterfall, that would allow him to ascend – or to arrive in – the Second Precinct unhindered. He stepped out from the briefly parted cascade of water boldly, stopping only once he was clear to listen.

Nothing unusual. No sound at all. It might have been muffled, and this Precinct was murkier, muddier than the last, and he could not see far beyond the end of his sword – in theory he could stumble across his aunt and her fight, and he would rather not ruin his only advantage.

And surely he would hear them…

He waited, seconds, minutes, hours, until he was sure he was alone. Which, as he jogged towards the invisible whirlpool that would take him on, did little to comfort his paranoia that he should have run into _something_ by now. The Dead were not always so smart as to avoid an Abhorsen in their midst – most often one would grow cocky, self assured so close to life, or would mistake the bells for that of a necromancer who didn't know what they were doing. He was not as famous as his aunt in this river. They would avoid her by sight and sound alone.

But still there was nothing. Silence and the quietness that one would expect Death to be, but never actually was, not until the final Gate. A soul passed by his ankle, peaceful but broken. She was one of the lucky ones at the palace, one that the inexperienced necromancers had missed. She, unlike him, plummeted to the depths of the whirlpool that was now suddenly at his feet, and she would keep going, all the way to the Ninth Gate and beyond.

Terciel spoke the words, jogged down the path, raced through the Third Precinct without time to think about the wave as the water lapped at his heels along with his paranoia, and stepped through into the Fourth. There were a few Dead here – Dead who had been caught out by the river, but they were not close by, too dazed to do anything about it but stagger aimlessly along the seam between the gates, recuperating strength.

Or, as they were today, avoiding the grip of the Abhorsen's bells.

Terciel knew them, the sweet, familiar tones literal music to his ears. But they were impure, a cacophony met with another bell, and together they made a dark chorus that caressed around his ankles and whispered in his ears. The darkness came from an impure Saraneth, he knew. Though not directed at him and thus he could shrug off its binding, the will behind it was incredibly strong, and all the more troubling given the note that rang was untrue as it met his aunt's responding peal.

Her bell, he noted, was Dyrim. The speaker. It restored speech to those that were mute, but Kerrigor's façade had seemed perfectly capable of such a thing. Perhaps it was meant as a bending of that definition of speech – that he had his secrets, which his aunt would force him to give up and tell her.

But what secret was possibly worth delaying sending him to the Ninth Gate? Could she even… was that even possible…

No, not enough time. No time for more thought.

The chide was forgotten as he flipped Saraneth in a steady hand, his sword reflecting fractured light from the river, the grey sky, and Terciel stumbled forward, blind, trusting instinct and sound alone.

Fortunately, his aim was true, and a cloud of sparks from Charter spelled blade meeting Free Magic spelled blade flourished into the air, through the mist that rose from the water below – and then he was there, at his aunt's side.

The Abhorsen held the ground and way back to life, blue Charter fire running up and down her own sword, tarnished by the white of Free Magic as the Charter ate away the lingering spell from its latest clash with vigour. Dyrim was still in hand, still ringing, even long after its opposing Saraneth had stopped, as Kerrigor fought the compulsion to speak and fought against the strength of a much younger man.

What her nephew did not know was that the Greater Dead had a fondness for speaking, of narcissistic monologuing, observed from their brief time together in combat, and she meant to take advantage of it - even as Kerrigor resisted, snarling profanities and gibberish to avoid what she most wanted to hear, what he might gloat should he feel overly assured of his victory. He was openly struggling.

But Kerrigor knew better than to fall to an Abhorsen's tricks, not when he _wasn't_ assured of a victory.

The Abhorsen also knew it. If he spoke, it would be a bonus – but unlikely. It did buy her time – enough time for her Abhorsen-in-Waiting to stumble out of the fog and take a blow Kerrigor had intended for her, as she knew he eventually would.

But she was relieved to see him, a smile cracking weather beaten lips. Her real gambit had played out, just like she wanted.

"You certainly took your time!" she called out in greeting, the sound of the bell still managing to drown her out, reducing Terciel to lip reading – but the smile spoke more than her words did.

He shook his head, with a sigh, because of course she could be blasé about his timely arrival, Kerrigor only not bowed over her impaled body by coincidence, and then there was her recklessness to bind Death to life in order to drag her quarry and herself here and believe that she would survive.

"It's chaos, aunt," he replied, once he had reached her side and the bell had been reduced to a steady chime. Kerrigor's eyes bulged as he scrabbled at the invisible grip at his neck, choking words he could not speak out of him. Terciel's appearance only fuelled his anger – he would break free, soon. Terciel had seconds for a selective reply. "We don't have much time. The citizenry of Belisaere rioted – they breached the walls, necromancers, the Dead. I'm unprotected."

"I taught you better than that, Terciel," his aunt clicked her tongue, flicking her wrist against her blade as the last of the Free Magic fire went out, pure again. "We should hurry."

Terciel nodded, holding Saraneth forward. Constantly hurrying – that was his lot today, it seemed. He noticed her own bandoleer lacked it, but she simply stilled Dyrim's lingering undertones and swapped it for Kibeth.

The silence of Dyrim gave Kerrigor the chance to break free, catching himself as he almost fell face first into the river, his own will exerted against nothing. A low, hollow chuckle began from his ribs, burning through his throat as he laughed and then cackled.

"Two," he mused, his words once again his own. "Two! You must think yourselves so formidable, with two. But you are the last… which makes it all the sweeter for me."

"And to think you won't speak when you're told," the Abhorsen responded dryly, which only made the dark cloud of a man fume at the edges – here in Death, it took effort he couldn't spare to hold all of his shape, and her arrogance made it all the more difficult for him. She bore down on him, taking a well earned step forward, swinging her blade at her hip, though she did not intend to use it. "Come, Terciel. Let us show him what it means to face the Abhorsen and her Abhorsen-in-Waiting."

What she was planning against such a foe, Terciel didn't know. To bind was most likely, as had been done many times… to walk him as far as they dared, equally so.

But whatever she had planned, he trusted his Abhorsen implicitly.

"Gladly."

\- - - -

Nerysiel was beginning to wish she had chosen a sword back at the house.

Her arrows were long spent save two, the best of them long released at a nod of approval from her feline companion, and now her bow useless except for in dire emergency, which her present predicament was rapidly turning into. Her dagger play was peerless, only aided by having one for each equally dexterous hand, but even she was reluctant to get so close to the Dead over and over again. Though their flesh had only begun to recently degrade in strips above jutting bones, the putrid smell made her feel sick, especially when she had to slice and tear at limbs in close quarters for the Charter spelled weapon to have any effect.

This could all have been solved with a sword, and it wasn't as though Terciel's had stayed behind in life, or that the Dead would bring her any.

To make matters worse, Nerysiel was also beginning to feel light headed, which told her that all of this, to look so many people – Dead – in the eye was sending her mind reeling, that she was losing her battle with herself in remembering that the Dead were people no longer. They were corpses, _Dead_ , but they were also men, women, young, old. Mentally she was retreating, too tired, too drained, where she did not have to pretend that she was not fighting against a steadily building mound of charred, broken limbs that were now once again corpses and her only barrier against the more that would come.

Corpses _she_ had put there…

And now there was another to add to the pile as she the knife slid through sinew. The spirit inhabiting it shucked the body as its hold slackened, and tried to dive into the one behind it. Its current inhabitant was less than happy to part with its recently acquired home, and the squabble lead to one less Hand in the room as both entities scuttled into Death. It meant little to Nerysiel. It was another body, though she refused to count how many. Just another.

At least whatever the Abhorsen had done by calling Death to the throne room was making this fight… somewhat easier. Even the lightest, swiftest of blows was making the Dead lose their grip on their hosts, and they were reluctant enough to enter the throne room to begin with after the initial wave that had poured in, smarter and warier.

But they were bound to do so, infuriated, craving the life in the room that had been promised - the unprotected life, and that of a woman weak with the Charter who they would prey upon before the real feast arrived with the Abhorsen's second. Their master would be so pleased at their success.

Though she refused to count, it was the Dead Hands' relentless volume that was truly the problem, Nerysiel knew, as she withdrew her dagger from the latest arrival that had ducked around the debris and ice statue. Though she wasn't an expert with the Charter, she had concocted a rudimentary spell of blasting to shear some of the floor around her for at least a little defence, to give the Hands less points of entry. She had used the spell on dirt before; it was something that would be best continued to be used on dirt, she reckoned. Fractured marble shards against an unarmoured body would not be a pretty sight.

But she was tiring, and still they kept coming, and Terciel wasn't back yet. He might have instructed her to tap his shoulder, and she was tempted, but… that felt like a defeat, a defeat she wasn't yet ready for until they were swarmed. She had to give him a chance to do what he had to do, and not call him back prematurely because she felt overwhelmed and alone.

_Not alone_ , she reconsidered, with a glance to her feet, where Mogget had spent the entire onslaught, traipsing about in her shadow. The cat shape might be useless against the Dead, but she knew his dwarf form had arms, and surely he could afford to punch and kick them? At least a little? But no - as usual, the cat valued his cleanliness, giving her a dirty look when she'd first blown up the surrounding floor and had spent much of the first part of the trench battle licking his paws clean whilst approving arrows, declining in giving up his grooming regimen.

"Mogget, help me," she muttered, not for the first time, looking down at him with the gap in the rushing Dead coming towards her.

Mogget kept cleaning. "But you are doing so well," he mewed. "And I _am_ helping. Two more approaching, on your left. Oh, and one on the right. Faster than the other two."

Telling her about what was coming to kill her and how fast it was going to do so didn't seem like helping, even if it was a useful talent, given how reflective the ice surfaces could be. When she still had arrows, she had relied on it, and succeeded; now, she would prefer if he used his talents for more than chartering enemy movements.

Not that she wouldn't use his advice. Nerysiel ducked out from behind her protective enclave to the right, dealing with the faster of the three Hands with a quick thrust, and then steeled her mind to deal with the other two, as she'd broken ground first and not for them… which meant a very gruesome end she was slowly training herself not to think about.

Soon enough, she was back in position beside Terciel – no change – and Mogget – whiter, but damp from his grooming.

"Surely there has to be a better way of doing this that preferably involves you helping more," she lamented aloud, chewing her lip. She'd chewed it enough in the past hour that it was already past bleeding, but she hadn't noticed.

Mogget ignored the intended slight as he swapped paws – how he managed to look right at her with such serene ignorance was beyond her, even if it were likely from millennia of practice – and between licks, countered, "Use the Charter, oh prickly one. Just don't bring down the ceiling… or have the floor cave in."

"Ha, ha," she rolled her eyes. Bad move; she felt dizziness sweep over her thanks to the added exhaustion. "If I _could_ use it in a fight, I _would_. But I've…"

"Never had the right motivator," Mogget concluded. It wasn't what she was going to say, but he also wasn't wrong. "Lucky for you, there are Hands on all sides. Hmm, it's been some time since the last one. They must be organising themselves."

Nerysiel's stomach did a back flip.

"What!" Nerysiel cried out, despairing. "There's no way I can take on more than a few at a time!"

"You've been lucky, by force of numbers is how they usually win," Mogget shrugged, padding both his paws on the floor for purchase but finding none. "Time to call the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, I should think. If you want my opinion," he added, coyly.

Nerysiel shook her head. "No, he needs more time."

"And what are you going to do about it?"

He had her there.

She thought. She wet her bruised and bloodied lip with her tongue, tasting iron. She didn't need Mogget's uncanny senses to tell her - the Hands were coming, closer, joints clicking and unhinged jaws gabbling nonsense. These were the ones who had taken their hosts and changed them beyond recognition: these were ones that were maul her easily enough, skeletal fingers around her throat, just like in her nightmare.

She had told herself not to, and until now, had managed it – but she stole a glance at the lifeless, vacant body of Kerrigor, a ghoulish shadow that had sat above her all this time. A strange guardian of protection for what he represented – or a waypoint. She shuddered.

Kerrigor would not have her today, and nor would the newly raised Hands in his service.

She looked down at her daggers, her useless bow and quiver, the remaining two arrows, spelled – and then at her own hands.

Something rash.

"Something clever," she uttered in reply to Mogget's question, fierce yet quiet – quiet enough that no one should have heard.

But Mogget did, and he smiled impishly. He so did enjoying picking meat off the bones.

Nerysiel didn't see him or his smile, and arguably didn't see very much at all as she reached out into the cascade of marks she so often put aside, the one river that was not denied to her. The mark on her forehead flashed, bright then clipped as she swam, crawled, and plucked her first mark.

Then her second.

Then a third. And another, and another, and another.

The Charter danced in her hands, brighter and brighter still as she let go of her sensibilities, of the marks she knew, the marks she had only ever called and laid to arrow shafts – to search instinctually, by feeling, by need and want.

The need to protect Terciel.

The need to live.

The need to steer the Kingdom forward, from a fate it couldn't escape.

It might have been a second, or a minute, or another hour, but it wasn't long before what she had wrought was out of her control. A controlled wildfire sat in her hands, wafting over fingers, but not burning, warm to the touch – marks bounced free, truant, scattering to the air and piercing the ice above and alongside, dents in the newly made architecture as the water fizzled, crackled, and evaporated. 

But it was not for the ice, and she took care to turn away from the Abhorsen and Terciel, towards the advancing Dead – they were slow, deliberate, assured of their victory – but even the serenade of synchronised clicks faltered as the whirring ball of light and energy grew larger, appearing above the debris shield the woman had raised, growing bigger and brighter and harsher all the time, like the sun.

They hated the sun, they hated fire, and they loathed the Charter. It was almost enough to make the Hands turn heel – but the necromancers pressed.

Forget the woman. They needed her gone, they needed to take the Abhorsen's second down to the reservoir, to foil the real one, to blackmail or trick – and if she fell, well, the new one would already be in their welcoming grasp.

The Dead sallied forward as Nerysiel stood, Mogget swaying at her feet as the Charter fire swooped low and avoided him. He looked up at the woman, truly doing the rashest thing she could think of – fools, why did he have to stand alongside so many fools – but not knowing when enough was enough.

It was enough, by his reckoning and well trained eye – and a quick swipe to an exposed ankle was all the spell needed to break past its containment as Nerysiel's concentration waivered, and to spiral towards the oncoming Hands.

The debris charred, bitten by fierce flash fire, and the ice across the room melted as if it were never there.

The Dead, caught in the crossfire of the blast, screamed and wailed – the closest shocked by heat and flare, snapping back to Death, their vessels burnt – those further back blinded by the light of the daytime they so hated, skin and sinew blistering in the sudden midday sun that should not have been.

Nerysiel fell backward at the force of the blast that left her hands, hands blistered and scarred and covered in black ash as she fell to the floor – but she didn't pass out, though overwhelmed and drained.

She would have sat up, but she already was – she had been thrown against the last remaining ice, the ice that surrounded the Abhorsen and Kerrigor. It wasn't wet, and it wasn't cold, but it did coax her to relax, and she mustn't do that, even if her mind swam and she couldn't quite remember why…

"Fire must like you," Mogget mused, and though she couldn't see him yet as black dots blinked across the whiteness that was her sight, she could feel his pink tongue, experimentally licking fingers. He almost sounded… impressed. She flinched as his tongue snaked across a patch of burned skin, but it did not deter him, and it was welcoming, cooling. Healing, perhaps...

…then harsh, as she felt teeth nip on her forearm. "Don't fall asleep. He would be angry if you joined him now."

"I won't," she coughed. Her free hand roamed the ground, finding her bow, her quiver, pulling them close, for what little good it would do her. It was a struggle, but it gave her something to do, something to hold onto. She would not be pulling taught a bowstring in the foreseeable future, nor wielding a dagger. And her supplies… nothing for burns. Wrong season. How underprepared, in retrospect. "But I don't have the strength to do that again if more Dead come."

"Unsurprisingly."

"I suppose we have to wait, and hope," she frowned, some of her vision returning, enough to see the white shape that she was fairly certain was Mogget, and the darker, blueish one that was a frozen Terciel. Well, presumably still frozen Terciel.

She shifted on the stone, limbs protesting, but the pain was not blinding, which was fortunate, given her mostly visionless state. But her jumbled pain and exhaustion would not make her pass out as long as she remained still. That was good.

She looked at the white blob on the edge of her vision. Mogget, the cat who had pushed her when she needed it for his own ends… for hers as well as Terciel's.

"Can you do me a favour?"

"I am bound to my masters. It is only by the Abhrosen and Abhorsen-in-Waiting's instruction that I assist you willingly."

"That's why I asked for a favour."

Mogget scoffed. But his curiosity got the better of him. "What sort?"

"The next Hand that comes in here," she breathed, "use your fists."

That did earn a dark chuckle. 

"Oh, but I could, girl," Mogget replied, not quite himself, but also not quite with his true self's loathing.

\- - - -

The Abhorsen rang Kibeth as Terciel rang Saraneth.

Kerrigor howled, with a volume that transcended possibility, making Terciel's eardrums thrum as if they threatened to burst. But even Kerrigor's inhuman exclamation could not drown out the sound of the bells that were directed at him, and the Greater Dead knew it.

They had called his bluff, and one bell, he could challenge. But two? Two… restricted. Not quite a threat, but not… easily dealt with. Saraneth tried to bind him in place as Kibeth forced him to walk where she wished, where he would not go, which he _could_ not go, and surely they knew it – but they would bind and walk him back to his prison, a prison he had spent years eroding, for a victory that he was so close to tasting… but he had failed, underestimating the Abhorsen's shared penchants for foolishness.

He would not go. He would not.

They bore down on him, the two of them together, and Kerrigor swung his sword wide, aimed at the Abhorsen's neck. It was an inhuman strength in which he struck, but Terciel parried him again regardless, stepping in front of his aunt and sluicing a graceful path through the water as they edged forward. Kerrigor swung again; his aunt pushed him back. Again, and again, and still the bells rang. The sword strikes were all for show, wanting them to make a mistake, to drop the bell, to make the awful sound they made stop…

But the Abhorsens would not stop. 

Even as Kerrigor's swings slowed, the Abhorsen still advanced upon the outline of a man, broken by the river, and only his cruel wiry mouth remained on his face. He looked the part that he was – the part he had locked away in a perverse sense of vanity for the price he had paid in order to become unstoppable, for the power he wished to bathe in. To be locked away by an Abhorsen, once again – that was a price of its own, the last conscious thought as Saraneth shushed him, made his mind compliant.

If the Abhorsen believed him to be truly docile, then she was a greater fool than he had thought – but she stopped outside his potential clutches, and Kibeth quietened. In short order, Terciel stilled Saraneth, though the bell was eager to sound again should their enemy make any sort of move, even a compliant one. He held it firm, focusing on his want for Kerrigor to remain bound.

"You underestimate me," he tempted. They had done nothing for his speech. "Tonight falls in my favour. I may not have killed him, but your pathetic excuse for a regent would not have gone far…"

"You assume that we didn't know this would be the way of things," the Abhorsen interrupted. She rang Kibeth, but slow, a steady tinkling of notes, and Kerrigor's legs lurched about like a puppet commanded by an inexperienced puppet master, plonked down into the water with a mighty splash as he reluctantly turned heel, towards the Fourth Gate.

"The ice seers," he murmured. "Of course. Always so self assured of what will pass. I will have the reservoir yet."

The Abhorsen frowned, looking to Terciel, who kept pace beside her. His expression had not changed, but his eyebrows had gone up a fraction. Not that he did not know of Kerrigor or the stories about him - but for her apprentice, this was a puzzle that was finally slotting into place.

She could see it there in his eyes, the understanding that Kerrigor had meant for her to be in Belisaere, alone, to take her to the reservoir, to bleed her dry and break the Charter. It had to be. That was the only thing to be done in the reservoir, why the Charter weakened, year by year. It was a worst fear, the kind that kept people awake at night, a possibility they hadn't considered, that something dark and powerful had intended to kill someone you cared about. For it to be affirmed in Death, face to face with such a dark terror… well. Her nephew had mastered the art of blank face perfectly, even if his tell gave him away.

"Perhaps," she reasoned. "When there is no one left to stop you."

Kerrigor said nothing, thanks to Saraneth's will slipping tighter, a slumbering unconsciousness – Terciel's doing. He had heard enough. He didn't relish his time in Death, but this was one visitation he was eager to be done with, to deposit their quarry and go.

Only Kerrigor would not go, if he remembered right – and he did, as his aunt kept walking, Kerrigor ahead, stopping every few steps in anticipation of the waterfall that led to the Fifth Precinct. It was a deceptively short drop, and had a habit of appearing when least expected, and when actively searching for it, equally as much had a knack for delaying its appearance. 

His Death sense hummed, a large quantity deposited through the previous Gate after being picked up by the waves of the Third Precinct, but none came too close, drawn away by a tighter current – or out of fear for a master they had failed, a master in chains.

"What are we going to do?" Terciel asked, as his aunt continued her experienced probing, him several steps behind.

"Bind him to the Gate. I would have preferred a later one, but this will do. You don't have long left…" his aunt replied absently, stopping short: she'd found the waterfall. To his surprise, she began to walk along the horizon, rather than speak the words to let them pass through to the Fifth Precinct. "It's something new for me to teach you. Or is it in the Book of the Dead? It's been too long since I was in its pages..."

"Not that," Terciel interrupted, albeit gently – but his tone sounded harsher than he had meant it, carried by the coldness of the river. "I meant… about the Old Kingdom. We prepared, we knew this might happen, but now it has, I don't…"

He trailed off. His aunt kept walking, her back to him.

"I don't have those answers, Terciel. We do what we must, what is it our bloodright. That is all we can do. It will not be easy, but you will."

" _We_ will."

"Yes," the Abhorsen sighed, sounding very far away. "Yes. Assist me. Pass me Saraneth… she will shatter, I'm sad to say…"

Terciel did as he was bid, though reluctant – he hadn't had the opportunity to ask about his aunt's missing bell, but he doubted hers was in usable condition either. Without Saraneth to call upon, he felt strangely vulnerable – she might be a crutch, but she was as much for a reason. All the Abhorsens found strength in Saraneth's voice.

The Abhorsen took the bell after sheathing her sword – now she held Kibeth and Saraneth both, and she wet her lips, white smoke billowing from behind her teeth as she spoke Free Magic, the words to unveil the black ribbon that would lead them out across the Fifth Precinct. He understood what she meant, about binding Kerrigor here – it was not an opportune place. Necromancers who might free him would not face the same worries that they did, as the Dead approaching on the black ribbon would serve, not plummet them to their untimely death.

She indicated for Terciel to go first. "Stop at the bottom. Watch for the Dead," was all she commanded. 

Gingerly, Terciel breached the Gate and the Fifth Precinct, waiting for the opportunist that always lurked here – he could count on one hand the number of times he had passed through the Fifth Precinct uninterrupted, and it would be a lot of hands he didn't have to count the rest – as he stepped down along the ribbon, Kerrigor behind him. He didn't much like the Greater Dead at his heel in such quarters, which made him exert his will a little more than was truly necessary to make the husk shuffle sideways, so the empty eyed stare would not bore into his back.

As the Abhorsen instructed, he halted as the ribbon straightened itself out into a horizontal line, reaching out into the darkness, across to the opposing gate on the other side of the precinct. He squinted into the gloom, as if that would help him to see better. No opportunist came, though that did not mean it would.

Warily, he half-turned, just in time for his aunt to reach the bottom of the make-shift staircase, rubbing her palm against her shoulder blades, distracted – her fingers somehow still managed to hold the bell in place without it sounding. When she saw him looking, her hand dropped down to her side.

"I will do this," she said, distantly – though no longer pressing her hand to her shoulder blade, she rolled her left, as if trying to scratch an particularly persistent itch, or soothe an aching muscle. Now he was starting to get concerned. "Watch, and take heed. There isn't much time left."

"Very well," he reasoned, peaceable, but the statement, her choice of words… it did little to soothe his paranoia that she wasn't telling him something. Or not telling him something _else_. Death wasn't the best of places to hold council, but the last time they had spoken at the House… it felt so far away. There was so much he wanted to ask, to riddle out, to tell her. She didn't even know Nerysiel existed – and every waking moment, she wasn't far from his thoughts. It wasn't as if she had a right to know, but when that kind of care began… she should know, and he couldn't tell her. He didn't have the time to tell her. Maybe when they stepped back into life together, successful, Kerrigor bound anew for an indiscernible amount of time, the two of them could be introduced… and though Kerrigor would be released again, luring some poor fool to him, he could hope that would be outside of his lifetime.

He knew otherwise. Kerrigor's accumulative power only made it a matter of time… if he had returned once, if he would not go beyond the final gate… something tethered him to life. And it would fall to him to seek it out, to find it.

Terciel tore himself from his thoughts to watch his aunt – she was guiding Kerrigor forward and past her, into the hissing stream of water that enclosed him, avoiding contact with his black stuff as if hitting upon an invisible rim. Submerged, his eyes snapped open – unmoving, immobile, but they were not focused on the Abhorsen. They looked right at him. It was if the white flames were reaching out and pulling him in, to whisper in his ear-

Terciel looked away, down the dark, silent stretch of ribbon as he was supposed to be doing, then back towards the Abhorsen. She was plucking a complicated string of symbols from the Charter and infusing them with Free Magic mutterings, laying them both into the bells. They shone incredibly bright – either as a beacon that would beckon the Dead closer, or that would further dissuade them from approaching, should they suffer a similar fate. Interrupting an Abhorsen in such a rare process? It was not a fate they would wish upon themselves – and even if they served the bedraggled form being bound to the Fourth Gate, they would not reveal themselves, nor assist.

The Dead always had one thing on their minds – the prolonging of their own life. In that way, they would always be ultimately selfish.

The shining bells, the Charter symbols – Terciel only half paid attention, but it was enough. He recognised his aunt's movements, because she had been correct – they were in the Book of the Dead, the pages bright in his memory as he remembered. It was a particularly gruesome thing to see on his first reading as a boy, and fortunately, the knowledge of how to do it had been swept aside until needed – though it wasn't a fond sensation at seeing it performed. Given that its contents constantly shifted depending on its moods, the phases of the moon, the time of day or season, it was a terribly dark thing for the Book to decide to show, when an Abhorsen could go an entire lifetime without seeing it… sheer luck, perhaps.

Or that he himself would one day use it. He looked away again, back to the ribbon, wishing for the security of Saraneth in his grip, but making do with a sword. He contemplated Ranna, but with his will still directed towards Kerrigor, he was reluctant to break that bond before he was truly contained.

Something skittered about in the distance, weighing up its chances… but the path remained empty, vacant of activity. They would have to depart the Precinct back the way they came with haste, he figured. The Dead would not waste such an opportunity forever, especially when the Abhorsen was through with her binding.

The sound of the bells, diluted and changed by the inlaid spells and ringing together, made him look back – she was through, finished, and the veil of suspended water fell, covering Kerrigor's ever staring eyes, until all he was became a dark disfigurement beneath grey water, not to be touched or disturbed.

As he vanished, the knells ceased, dust lacing the Abhorsen's fingers in the shape of imprinted bells – or had been, as a mere second later, it was gone, washed away.

Terciel heard the clicking sound before he turned, the crashing, screaming noise as multiple Dead fell to the void of the Fifth Precinct, tossed aside by something bigger, something greater, that had lurked behind them, and whilst it too had a need to fabricate itself a body to escape this wretched place, its body was greater, larger, and more forceful – and it knocked the rest aside like ragdolls, eager, knowing this was its second of a chance and no more.

But the Abhorsen did not intend a fight. She gripped Terciel by the collar, tugging him backward wordlessly – any other person might have toppled, but with an Abhorsen's reflexes, it was enough for him to automatically turn and reposition himself before she'd even drawn her hand back, and had begun to run. Without Saraneth, on such a narrow gangway, retreat was the wisest of courses. Once they left, the ribbon would pull back, back to whence it came, as if it never had been to begin with.

It was already – the thing was scrabbling ahead by inches, more mouth and jaw than legs and arms and body, and desperate, never quite having the gall until now when the chance began to slip away, but it was big – big enough to knock anyone aside, should it wished. And Terciel did not wish that, so he ran, ran back up the spindling stair into the waterfall, back out into the quietness of the Fourth Precinct, where perhaps he might have a minute to speak with his aunt-

The ribbon snapped back into place, Terciel's footing giving way to nothing. His right foot sickeningly plummeted for invisible purchase – but the Abhorsen, in a timely manoeuvre, hauled him up by the arm before he truly had time for the gut wrenching sensation to follow through.

The creature, whatever it had been, was not so lucky. It took the plunge, straight to the river far below, where it would be carried to the very end of the river, never to return.

Secure in that he was unharmed – a searching look of his face, his body, his armour – the Abhorsen let her nephew go, clicking her tongue. "I should have sent you back through the Gate first to avoid that from happening."

She said the spell to reveal it, so it was only logical the ribbon would cease to be when she no longer had need of it - Death was always eager for new occupants, and would take advantage of their hurry. Terciel shook his head. "I'm sure I can forgive you, given you pulled me out. And that we didn't have the time."

Speaking of which, their task was done, and it was still slipping away. They had to return to life – which meant a jog and run and perhaps a word of forewarning, if he could figure out what to say first. He jutted his thumb in the direction to leave, the way no else was permitted to go, and the Abhorsen nodded. For a second, it almost seemed as though she refuse him.

To his credit, he tried to think of something to say – but as Death was tricky with time, it was also tricky with distance. Soon enough they were at the Gate, and then racing against the waves, and chartering their way past pit holes and traps and back into the First Precinct. He could remember thinking about what he could say, where he should start his thoughts – but the company had won out. That, or whenever he had been about to speak, something else had always caught his attention.

Half way through the First Precinct of Death, the Abhorsen stopped.

Terciel almost didn't notice – so preoccupied with where they would go from here, that he near stumbled back into life before he realised the second pair of feet were no longer sloshing through water alongside him.

And her voice.

"Terciel, wait."

He did, turning on his heel. He raised an eyebrow – she was stood, perfectly still, eyes half closed, ripples forming around her ankles, a statue in Death to mimic her body still in life.

It was as though she were incredibly distant, face expressionless yet extremely tired, her strength waning – as though Death had finally leeched the last of the spirit she had to give.

And, quite suddenly, he was filled with the desire to jam his fingers in his ears, to block out whatever it was she had to say. It could wait until life; they would have to flee, potentially see to more necromancers and they would likely not have the time to rest until tomorrow – but it could wait until past then, too.

It could wait forever as long as she went back with him.

"Let us return to life, auntie," he smiled, a childish smile, as he forced himself to walk back to her. He hadn't had to look up into her face for many years, but he stooped low enough so he would have to, mimicking the little boy who had once used that name… as if by doing so he could rewind the time that had so rapidly, suddenly, run out.

He didn't know what she had to say, but he could make an educated guess. This was his way of avoidance – trying to return to innocence. She had lived with him long enough to know it, and it was not the first time.

The moments drew out, even with him by her side, shoulder to shoulder. With a great deal of reluctance, she sighed – and time moved forward once again.

"I shan't be returning to life with you, Terciel."

His heart sank to his boots, carried away by the current that felt cold, so cold, as if he would be the one staying instead of her.

No. Not again.

He didn't know if he could withstand another goodbye.

"Please," he whispered, eyes cast to the river swirling about his ankles and hers. 

She said nothing, and that said more. It was not a matter of wanting to. She couldn't.

"Calling for Death is unwise, I know, but that shouldn't place you here forever," he objected. She had to be wrong.

The Abhorsen woefully shook her head. 

"It was Kerrigor."

The blinding, vacant eyes settled in his mind, as if Kerrigor were able to pierce into his skull this far away. Terciel promptly pushed it aside – he had not done anything here to his aunt, not in Death.

What did he see, back in life? Her encased in ice, Kerrigor readying to strike – his mind jolted, fearful. That had to be it. But had he struck? Now he thought about it, he couldn't quite remember what he had seen, so relieved that she would be there to make things right, to council, to be strong for the both of them, so he would not have to be…

Apparently not.

Slowly, the Abhorsen placed a hand above her heart, rolling her shoulders as before. "As Death was brought to us, he made sure I would not return to the living. I could, of course – but in that moment of the return, my life would be forfeit."

"And you've known, all this time?"

The Abhorsen half smiled. She had tried to hide her discomfort… but her apprentice was no fool, even if his greatest strength and failing were in his attachments to others. And she only had worse news to offer him. "If he could not have my life in the reservoir, to break the Great Charter Stones… then I would not have it, either."

"And his intention is…"

"To break the Charter? Yes," she frowned. "And revenge against our blood, for stopping him the first time when the royal bloodline was lost; and now a second, when the regency fell. I have placed a greater burden upon you than I would have liked."

"Well, you know me," he deflected, grinning, because it was not as if he didn't know that he was the very last of his line and a great burden was to be put upon him - but the smile didn't meet his eyes. This was bittersweet, a moment that he could not even fit a fraction of what he had tell her into – and whilst he didn't feel it, didn't know if he could ever feel it, he had to show her he was strong. That didn't stop his grin from faltering. "I should have been faster, aunt. I should have… I don't know. I'm sorry."

Ruefully, the Abhorsen looked at him, until she reached out to embrace him – and he didn't object. "No. No apologies. Everything ends. This is my time – I have accepted that. Do not dwell upon me."

"No promises," he murmured, and she only held him tighter, in knowing what the days, weeks, years to come would bring. 

And then she pulled back, for one final appraisal. She straightened his bandoleer strap, careful not to touch the six remaining bells. It was a mothering gesture, to find some flaw to fix, but in truth, she was satisfied with what she saw. It was a fine young man that stood before her, the last of her line, the young man she had raised.

"You must go, back to your companion," she prompted, voice steady.

Terciel quirked another eyebrow, even as had finished dusting him down. "How did you—"

"You would not be alone when you came here," his aunt avoided, but her tense usage meant this was likely a vision the Clayr had seen. But when? It hadn't been in their final message, and there wasn't time to ask, because Nerysiel would defend him to her last, and he did not wish to see her here by stalling any longer.

There was one last question before he left – one for his peace of mind, one that he finally forced himself to ask before their long departure.

"Did you know… when you went to Belisaere… that this would happen?"

The Abhorsen shook her head. "No, I didn't." 

It didn't give him comfort. Her words were only words, and it was up to him to believe her. But he chose to, regardless. 

She was not finished. "But if one of us had to get out of Belisaere alive, it had to be you. You are the fifty-second of us: I have taught you all that I can, and I have raised a fine apprentice. A fine… son," she corrected, for he was just as much that, in name if not in actuality. 

"Live well, Terciel. Live well… Abhorsen."


	25. Ashes

The ice cracked, and supportive arms caught him from plummeting to the charred, broken marble floor.

For a second or so, he didn't open his eyes, as he focused on welcoming life back – enjoying the warmth and the steadiness of the arms that braced him, to not always be consciously aware of the river that would try to pull him under and drag him away – but there was a difference between welcoming life, and acknowledgement of its passage, and what had. There was no putting off the inevitable of what awaited him.

Terciel opened his eyes, resigned.

It was Nerysiel who had caught him, looking down into his pasty white face, his squinting as he tried to adjust to a world where the palette didn't consist of varying shades of black and grey. She herself was more radiant than he remembered her, lit by the early morning sun that had broken through holes in the walls and windowpanes of what had once been a proud, pompous room of the palace, a reminder of another age – and Nerysiel was also lightly singed, if the smell was anything to go by.

Satisfied he wouldn't find himself face down on the floor, Nerysiel let him go - though her hand still rested on his forearm as she twisted about this way and that, hoisting her quiver and bow up over her shoulders. Now he was back, the bunkering down in what was left of the throne room would at long last be over and done. She had long since rested, long since fought against stragglers, long since watched Mogget punch and poke out squished corpse eyes: a sight she would prefer to never see again. But it would be over only if they left quickly, and to other just as important, necessary things. They had served the greatest need; now it would be the city's turn.

Terciel, for his part, tried to process his new reality – a reality he knew was always on its way, and one he would willingly shoulder, but the heart and the mind were not in agreement on the matter.

He did not feel ready. It was not based in logic – he was experienced, armed with the knowledge and skill of his trade, and he would never turn it down – but in feeling. Not quite panic, not quite anxiety, but the feeling he could not adequately fill the gaping hole his aunt had left behind: not with all these newly formed cracks and impossibilities. He was alone. The last. The last Abhorsen.

And as much as he did not feel ready for tackling that, he did not feel ready for the imminent present. Not ready enough to stand, to turn, to look at his aunt's lifeless body – another, too many, too many he knew and had loved – and accept his title and its loneliness. To watch the Charter fire take her might break him. But he had to move – _they_ had to move, him, Nerysiel, Mogget – and it was the last thing left for him to do, his final act as an Abhorsen-not-in-Waiting.

Shakily, he brushed away Nerysiel's hand as he stood, fluid and unencumbered, and all he could think about was how the name _'Abhorsen'_ had passed to a new vessel, to a younger body, and it felt wrong, so very wrong.

A gentle weight brushed against his shoulders – Mogget – purring softly in his ears as he settled himself in his favoured position as a fur piece around his neck. Surely, he knew already – perhaps he had known since they had first found his aunt in this room – but he had chosen not to speak, nor to share.

Ultimately, it was Nerysiel's gasp that made him turn. She had avoided looking at the statute of her would be killer for so long, that when she chanced a fleeting one towards the Abhorsen, she saw something she did not expect.

Terciel saw it too. Kerrigor, or what was left of him, was beginning to vanish – fading away, as if he had never been there, crumbling to grave dust as the ice melted, but not without finishing its task. As the ice was stripped back, the claws' target was met; or perhaps the long, slow seconds in the ice had already made it so, as it was not sheer ice that was stripped away, but also scarlet blood. Hours spent bleeding out in what should have been mere moments.

What had been his aunt slumped to the floor, lifeless, eyes closed, forever calling for Death. Already long gone and dead.

Neither he nor Nerysiel moved, but her expression became one of concern, then forlorn understanding. Terciel's inaction to heal, or approach, told her the outcome, why his aunt had not returned with him.

"There needs to be a cleansing," Terciel managed. "Before we… venture outside." 

He hesitated. His hand shook as he held it aloft. The thought of reaching to the Charter for the marks was not a comfort.

Nerysiel waited a few seconds before she offered, gently, "If it's easier, I can…"

"No," Terciel shook his head. He owed his aunt this, her final task for him. It was his duty to bear. 

Ever so slowly, the marks came – crawling from the Charter sea and cascading from his fingers, so slow they might have been suspended in the air. Cleansing, fire, endings, beginnings – the marks touched the Abhorsen's skin and flickered, and all too soon she was aflame.

"Go to the Ninth Gate and beyond, the Fifty-First of my line. Do not tarry, do not stop, do not look back, no matter what happens."

He lowered his hand. It was a blessing, practiced words, but also a formality; he had already bid her to walk in Death with Kibeth to the last Gate at her request. Better to be safe and sure than to leave fate to chance.

As the flames licked marble, Terciel ducked his head, feeling tears prick his eyes. His aunt's words were true, now. With that blessing, the final departure – he was truly taking up the mantle. Round his neck was the family servant, at his side was the woman he loved, and it was all he had left in this world.

They had to go – the world would wake soon, and he would need to be there in what was left of it, and all these delays kept adding up – but still he watched the flames, waiting for them to burn out. Nerysiel might have gathered the last of their things, if there was anything to gather – instead, she waited at Terciel's side, feeling an imposter into something incredibly private, yet unable to tear herself away from watching Terciel come undone and fall apart.

She knew this pain intimately, to lose the last of your family.

The Abhorsen was gone – and she was looking at him now. An unfathomable expression crossed her face, as if trying to decide how best to present herself, how much had changed, how things _would_ change, and how they were so alike in losing everyone and everything.

But not each other; they still had each other. And it was with that thought in mind that Nerysiel took his hand and held it.

Terciel did not object, grounding himself to the world, to life, holding it tight.

\- - - -

It was unmistakably wood imprinted against his cheek as he stirred, eyes slanted in the gloom of the library. The Charter marks for light had long since diminished, then disappeared to nothing; with his rousing they busied themselves with getting gradually brighter – but not enough, as the trap door down to the library had been opened, and that was the true source of the light that might have woken him.

It had been a long few weeks, longer than he cared to think about, and nor did he care to think overlong about what they had contained.

The dawn following the death of his aunt had brought the wreckage and the ruin. Much of the palace, set aflame, unprotected and without the usual safeguards, was lost – what still stood was crumbling, a finger's breadth away from collapse and some of it did and had since. He had doubted it would be cleared or for there to be plans to rebuild it.

It hadn't. There weren't many figures of authority left, with the regency so devastated. Terciel had sought out those that were left within Belisaere, but it had not been a productive summoning. The guard, and what was left of the constabulary, balked at the news that the Kingdom was lesser, that spring would bring more Dead than they had ever known – Terciel knew the previous night had taken its toll on them. Many were survivors, luckier for having lived, but unlucky for what they had bore witness to, what they now had to stomach. Many couldn't. With such a large quantity of the population massacred, raised and slain, even the citizenry of Belisare couldn't quite ignore how beholden they were to the Dead in the way they usually would and did. It was impossible to process; yet also impossible to shun. The survivors of the night crept around the streets, the usual hubbub of the fish markets a subdued, hurried affair, as children and widows and grandparents retreated back to shuttered windows and thick walls where they could mourn and worry and fear.

The guard might have listened to Terciel's reports and advice, but they could not do anything. Terciel himself could not do much. There was no power structure left, the regency up in smoke, its regent stampeded underfoot. And the Kingdom knew. They knew upon seeing the young man emerge from the wreckage, as he and his companion took down the last remaining necromancers and their Dead who had not yet fled in the morning mist, that he was all they had – that the Abhorsen was all they could call upon.

One man, one man who could never be everywhere, could never be a guarantee. And he had failed once already, some whispered. That knowledge would eventually blacken many hearts. But for now, though they would want him to fix it or find a solution, he could not. Belisaere stood, the last of the Great Charter stones spared, and that was the only victory – today's victory – and it was a victory that could not be shared or told, save for with the Clayr. And it was a victory that would not last.

He had fumbled through the next few days, given orders that might have been better said by someone else: each barked repetition was a reminder that he _was_ the only one who _could_. He checked in on Maeree and Lydriel, but still he could not crumble and rest, only able to snatch a few hours of fitful sleep before another day dawned with another set of problems for him, the Abhorsen, to fix. When he eventually left the city overground instead of under, the remaining guard had insisted the aqueducts would protect them without him there, but, the assurance of the aqueducts' safety only brought him more gloom. The rushing water that kept the Dead at bay was not a comfort to Terciel – it only reminded him of the inevitable. Given time, the Dead would claw the city's underbelly and choke it from within. They would choke and choke, and as things were now, he could not stop them. Someday he would, but Belisaere's warrant felt signed.

It was becoming difficult to keep face. He held on to his aunt's departure to Death, the image of her embracing the river she had defied for so long and her wish for him to succeed, to live – and the presence of Nerysiel, always at his side, never far away.

She had not left his side since that first morning after the regency's fall. They returned to the Paperwing, and then the the House, collapsing together into his room – his old room, though most of his belongings had been relocated – and they'd slept. And slept. And then they got up again, took the Paperwing, and he had worked and worked and had not stopped.

Until last night, when there was no more news, no latest uprising caused by necromancers in celebration, no latest crisis he had to resolve as the Dead tested him, and he felt it safe enough to return to the House, for a time. The reality was that he had returned to a stack of letters and an aftermath that, though it had tried to steady and stabilise itself, needed direction from the one source they could trust. He could not do everything, but Terciel would never stop trying to do it all. It was not in his nature, and he had recognised a few hours of penning letters and much needed research into Kerrigor to fully rid the Kingdom of him – the look as his flamed eyes had bored into his skull had not been forgotten – would better serve his time than long overdue rest he owed to himself.

His body, pushed to the limit, had disagreed with that decision. And here he had fallen asleep, to be awoken now by Nerysiel's warm hands against his skin.

Even weary, more subdued than he was, she was radiant, a source he did not mean to rely on so – but her presence was what kept him strong, strong enough to keep going. Only she was allowed to see this weakness, the pause in his uncertainty of a mantle that he still didn't feel he quite deserved, still feared he would bring about more ruin than less – or to simply see him asleep on a desk. 

The Sendings, now he was had Abhorsen, had taken heed of his instruction for him not to be disturbed. For better or worse, they had followed their commands exactly. Nerysiel didn't have that same restriction, and as he blinked she pulled back and sighed.

"You should come to bed," she said gently. She didn't identify to separate rooms or no – a statement over implication – as the past month had involved rocky ground and beds of straw and sleeping at each other's side, though never at the same time. And never atop a real, actual bed together, not like that first time when they had come back to the House after Belisaere.

Terciel yawned, even as he shook his head in disagreement. "I should…" he couldn't remember what he had been doing before he'd fallen asleep. Sending a missive to the Wall about the recently replaced wind flutes? Reading the Book of the Dead and studying maps and trying to figure out how and where Kerrigor was cheating Death?

The Book of the Dead was on the table, closed, but poised like a particularly lethal snake as its green cover glistened. Had he closed it? Had it closed because Nerysiel had arrived? How many days had it been since he'd last slept? He didn't know.

"You should sleep," he replied, because it was easier to be worried about her wellbeing than his own. "Didn't you say you were heading to bed…?" Several hours ago? Minutes? Terciel absently reaching out across the desk to pick up paper - it might have been a letter, once, but the spidery scrawl was undecipherable, even to him. A proper sleep, in a bed, might be necessary after all. Maybe then he could remember the day, or the month, or what he was meant to do next.

Nerysiel fidgeted when he failed to continue. "It's silly, but safe behind these walls, I should sleep well… but I've never been able to at this House. And I haven't when we were out in the Kingdom, not really, but what little I did have… has always been with you there, by my side. Watching over me. And without you there, I can't… for a few hours, yes, but never _well_ …"

She trailed off, torn between embarrassment and the lack of it. She didn't feel embarrassed: but it was still a confession, a part of her soul laid bare. One of the few things, she realised, that she had asked him for… and a small part of her worried if he would say no.

Terciel didn't. The paper gained perhaps a second more of his time, then was subsequently abandoned back to the tabletop, and he sat up a little straighter to give Nerysiel his full attention. He reached out, taking her hand in his, feeling the calluses of a hunter and skilled bowwoman. But it wasn't quite enough.

In fact, he needed a moment with her, just the two of them.

He pulled her down to him, to the armchair that was overlarge for one, but not quite large enough for two. But he made it work; a tangle of legs and her half sat on his knee. Functional. It was something more than words, more than her request, that he wanted her to stay.

He smiled, but it was a sad smile, one filled with unresolved pain. Her reply was a perfect match.

"Terciel, I don't think this will be very comfortable," she whispered, even as she leant against his shoulder.

"It won't be where our time ends," he promised. "But I… want you here with me. For a moment. And longer, if possible."

"That's assuming there's a moment to spare. We should do other things with it."

"Like what?"

Nerysiel considered. There were a lot of things, lots of serious, important things. Sleep, rest, recuperate; talk about what was really on both their minds, to try to gain some resolution. But did they need to talk? She didn't feel that they needed to. Just that they should: eventually.

Some things need not be said, and their heartache, them both using the other as a crutch was one of them. Not that it changed anything. They might both be a pillar, but it was a foundation built on trust and support, unconditional allegiance. The past few months had been another life, a life that meant she hardly recollected the one before. _This_ was her life now, and she would not exchange it – this was a life that, though not perfect, was one she could choose, and one she could find herself satisfied with.

Largely, that was Terciel's doing. Whatever they were had evolved to not needing words, not needing more than a simple touch… though this had been the first time he had held her in his arms since the night they had first returned, but that had not been tender. No, that tenderness had been when they had crossed the boundary from friends to lovers.

One they had never returned from, which meant they still must be.

That was one thing to say, to admit that she wanted it again, but it might only be a distraction rather than meant.

So instead she thought of her childhood, her life before the Abhorsen and the House and the lingering reek of Death, what she used to do before her life had decided itself for her.

She couldn't help but sigh fondly, absently. "Bathe in the river, listen to the sound of the wood and stalk a rabbit, lie in the grass beneath the stars."

"Alone?"

"Often. But I would do those things with you, if you asked."

He mused. "Perhaps not the river – the one here has a wicked current. The woods and rabbits are also somewhat lacking, to what would satisfy you. But the stars…"

Not in the grass, but they could lie on the carpets of the observatory and gaze up, up beyond the waterfall and tree line, almost as if they were floating away. He couldn't see the observatory now, separated by a level of brick and mortar and a winding staircase, but he could imagine it. 

Nerysiel was clearly thinking along the same lines, but she let out a noncommittal grunt. "Maybe later, when I feel up to moving again." 

He chuckled.

"What about you?"

"I'm not that imaginative," he confessed. 

Nerysiel gestured, grandly. 

"With all the time in the world, there's not a single thing you can think of?"

"That's assuming there's all the time in the world," he pondered. She nudged him squarely in the shoulder to show that she was serious. He mused, harder. "But I do mean it. When you're raised to be one thing, and anything from beyond that small world makes its way inside… it's not as though I've ever been good at hiding that fondness. Tokens to show it's something meant, I suppose."

She sat up from against his shoulder, their foreheads almost touching as she looked him in the eye, bemused.

"Tokens. Really."

"I'm very straightforward. That's how you ended up with new boots."

She wasn't wearing them now, dressed in fluffy slippers instead, but Nerysiel slipped one off to wiggle cold toes against his leg – Terciel tried, unsuccessfully, to get away from the sudden assault, but didn't succeed, given that he didn't have much room in which to mount a defense. He relented, and she leaned into him, until their noses knocked.

"I _like_ my new boots. But I haven't given you anything back…"

The words might have been leading somewhere, but Terciel found himself stricken by her closeness and the mounting, pressing thought that he remembered the taste of her lips against his and would very much like it again.

They had kissed a few times since… but nothing like this. Not deliberately; most were reactions, comforts, a kiss on the cheek or the forehead goodnight. Her lips and how contented he was against them were a fond, yet distant memory. 

Terciel fumbled over words, wetting his lips as most of his thoughts marched down the stairs and out the door – hang responsibility.

"There's one thing," he voiced, quietly.

"I think I know," she muttered, words lost as she kissed him on the mouth.

It was the most gentle of their kisses they had shared, savoured and given the time it was allowed; a softness that only came with the knowing that the partner would rather be nowhere else but here, wanting nothing but this.

As they broke apart for air – he'd lost count how many times – Terciel drew back, but only enough to speak before she kissed him again.

"Marry me."

She had already pressed her lips back to his by the time she heard it, registered it – but he was still, nonreciprocal, and she soon broke away.

The words hit her again as she looked into his searching, quiet eyes. She could ask for affirmation – not that she did not believe it, but so suddenly, so without warning, and with such finality – but there was also no need for it. She had heard him clearly.

The words were not a wave, but they did not pass without a ripple. Those words were an acknowledgement of the change between them. That they were lovers, and friends, but also _more_. Partners; completely, irrevocably. Terciel's biggest want was to be with her… and, truth be told, a distant want of her own.

How? There were those she had known all her life, those that perhaps she would have married if things had been different – or perhaps she would not have married at all, and become a spinster, a protector of other mothers and fathers because her village was her family. But her path had altered, radically: now, she was alone, just as much as he was, and all they had was each other.

It would be like no partnership she could ever have imagined for herself, and he knew it – had tried to warn her away that first night – and despite it all, she was still here, now, in his arms.

Yet for him ask for marriage so swiftly…

It was as natural as it was unnatural, almost as though every step they had taken since meeting would always, _always_ end here, no matter how they might have diverged if things had been different.

She realised there was only one answer she could – that she wanted - to give.

"I will." It was hushed and barely heard, but he caught it all the same.

"You will," he echoed.

They smiled, privately, and pulled each other close. Not to kiss, but in silent gratitude. They would move, eventually, to his room, to celebrate, but not yet – they wanted this moment, the moment of their engagement and its announcement to the room, to last.

Truthfully, the moment was past as soon as it was spoken. There were was no one else for them to tell, no one else who could know it. Their future was, at best, uncertain, and would march forward of its own accord, no matter how long their moment held.


	26. Part 3: Golden Towers

Winter came and went, as did spring, and then came the longest days of summer – not that the twin mountain peaks acknowledged it. A dusting of snow covered the valley paths all year round, and the tunnelled network that the Clayr called home were buried by snow drifts and blizzards that changed little in ferocity. The longer days and shorter nights were the deterrent to the Dead out in the Old Kingdom, but here at the glacier, it was the copious amounts of frozen water that kept them at bay – had and would, for as long as the Clayr were, and would be.

High above the mountain top, Nerysiel sneezed. Though Terciel had forewarned her as to the sudden shift in climate, and though they had come prepared with scarves and hats and quickly buckled skins over her preferred leathers, it was a shock to the system, and her body was less than willing to adapt. Her hastily applied goggles were already frosting over and gaining icicles, and Terciel's whistled wind to bring them and the Paperwing lower told her that not even he was immune to the chill - the whistle was more a vocal shiver, and the Paperwing bounced along until it evened out, probably of its own accord.

The only part of her that was warm was her legs, safe in the cockpit with what little strength she or Terciel had left to heat it, and especially her left ankle, where Mogget had braced himself sometime earlier. He had refused to be pried free, and now she knew why.

The frosting on her goggles meant much of the mountain's splendour was a mystery to her. Which was, in all, a shame: it was the first time she had been to the mountain and Glacier, the first time she had seen the twin peaks of Starmount and Sunfall. Instead the sun had blinded her and the weather drew itself a curtain, and she could vaguely make out the back of Terciel's head and not much else, feeling the wind currents beneath them tapering off as they presumably came in for a landing. It was a mixed first impression of their hosts, to be honest.

In the months she had spent after the regency's fall, the gaps in her knowledge had thinned greatly. Though her uneasiness at the House – when they were there, anyway – had never quite faded, it was safer than the time they spent outside of it, and the books in the study gave her a great deal of material she had never had access to. And she took the opportunity to better herself, to make herself stronger in all aspects, to fight the oncoming tide and danger and stand at the side of the man she had chosen to spend the rest of her life with. She had heard of the Clayr before – a legend, a thing children were taught, of mysterious women who could see the future in the ice with the Sight, something that had splintered into her dreaming mind, which was sadly not covered in any of the Abhorsen's writings or collected works from their former river town of Hillfair. But she had gained knowledge of the Clayr themselves from other documents and much besides – there were only a few books that were off limits to her, and that was not so much by Terciel's decree as to the book's own choice. Books having a mind of their own with all she had seen didn't exactly surprise her. There was some knowledge of Kerrigor, too, but not enough…

That thought was for later, after today. Now they were to meet the Clayr in person, when there had been no time to do so before. The Clayr had exchanged letters and missives with Terciel often, including the acknowledgement of his succession and later their marriage (which they had Seen, crossing over with the announcement that had been sent), and whenever they returned to the House, there was always a letter from the Glacier waiting for them. 

But the previous night's message hawk arrived and departed with the shortest by far: _"come to the Glacier twenty days after midsummer. We await the Abhorsen and his chosen huntress."_

The twentieth day would have made it the following day: the present. Today. It was possible the message hawk had arrived some time before them, with the House so often vacant… or that the hawk had merely arrived in a timely fashion, and the Clayr had simply selected a day they knew they would be there to receive a summons. However that worked. Without the prettiness of pleasantries, Terciel took it as urgent, and that next morning they had set out against the pleasant summer breeze, Paperwing stocked with supplies that were to last – though his errands and tasks across the Kingdom had at last begun to subside, it was alarmingly past midsummer, which meant that they would begin again all too soon. They both knew it was unlikely they would return to the House following their unplanned visit.

Not for the first time, Nerysiel wondered what it was the Clayr had to tell them that required their presence. Their role was to advise the King, the Abhorsen, and the Wallmakers, in that order, but without a King much of the future's fractured state could not be passed on. The Abhorsen – Terciel – still received the most important, the most prudent, of it, but there was little he could do, and with the Dead's endless waves with the regency lost and the Kingdom at last broken as it slipped past its interregnum to nothing, Nerysiel suspected the Clayr had not passed along everything. There was so much to a possible future, and they would select the pieces he could mostly likely affect, to change or keep, and not unkindly: the knowledge of all and inability to change it would drive anyone mad.

Summoning Terciel meant a message could not be relayed adequately, she figured. She had spent much of the flight fighting nerves for meeting such a prestigious group of women, who had also chosen to summon _her_ , and that part she couldn't figure out. Whilst she could count the number of times she hadn't been at Terciel's side in the past three seasons on one hand, could she really have such an outcome on the Old Kingdom's destiny? She was but a huntress from a village that no longer existed close to High Bridge, swept up into powers and fate much greater than hers. Could she really make _that_ much a difference, to whatever they wished to ask of them? Did they think she could, or was it just out of courtesy?

The answers would come, but it did not stop the biting thoughts nipping at her skin, just as the blizzard beyond the Paperwing threatened to do the same.

They were still heading lower, but the blizzard only increased its efforts and intensity. It was Terciel's tenacious will that kept them aloft, as the Paperwing shuddered beneath her; another of its moods, which she had learned meant it was unhappy with its current predicament and would much rather fly anywhere else but here. It shuddered again, jostling her hammock enough so that her shoulders touched its edges on one side, then another – and then there was a notable bump as it hit a solid surface and skated several metres across a thin sheet of ice, each wing swerving forward as if for dominance in a race. Blind and snowed in, Nerysiel left her stomach behind somewhere in midair, envisioning a crash – but they didn't crash, and soon the only sound left was the gale they had (successfully) flown through.

After a few seconds of silence and the affirmation that they would not slide off the landing area unto the mountain below, Terciel let out an audible sigh. Mogget shuffled his paws against Nerysiel's leg, as if that was his cue to move, and he clambered up to her knee, where he projected himself to his favoured neck position with the timing of one who knew that if he waited, he would miss his chance, as the hood would – and did – go up. Nerysiel reluctantly stood, fighting against another sneeze whilst simultaneously wiping the back of her hand against her nose, in an attempt to free it from the icicles that had settled in there. Either way, she sneezed again.

She could only hope that the writings of the Clayr were true and that it would be _warm_ inside the Glacier, as the sneezing, the storm, and the relentless snow were doing little except making her feel sorry for herself.

As she wiped her nose, again, she felt the familiar weight of Terciel's hand against her wrist, and she took him up on the offer, hoisting herself up and over the lip of the Paperwing. Ever dexterous, his hands went where was needed - taking her by the waist in mid air to masterfully dust her midnight blue boots unto the snow covered ice, the shift in weight hardly noticeable, and he never let her slip. Even though she was now on the ground, he kept hold of her a second more, their eyes meeting despite the obscurity caused by goggles, drinking in the other's face, the solid assurance of the other's being. He chartered the space between each freckle, the slant of her eyebrows; she looked to his brow, the gentle kindness that was in his eyes, the eyes of someone good. It was not a hug, and not a kiss, and not a declaration of a feeling – but it was, altogether, more intimate.

Satisfied with what they saw in each other's expressions, the pair separated, though Nerysiel retained a grip on Terciel's arm: what with the snowstorm, and the fact she could barely see the Paperwing beside her, let alone where they were supposed to meet the Clayr or if they were even waiting there for them, it seemed like the best idea.

Perhaps the Clayr were waiting, as right on cue, a square patch of Charter spelled, warm yellow light appeared within the fog – as if a door had opened, and someone had stepped outside.

Terciel shuffled forward, knowing it better - or just cold - and Nerysiel followed him, half a step behind. Whatever was beyond the light didn't make a move, and nor did it approach, and they were almost upon the side door that led to the Paperwing hangar when two pairs of mittened hands reached out and grabbed them, bundling them inside with surprising strength. And agility, as no more than half a second had passed before the bolt for the side port had been slid into place, blocking out the wind and the cold and the general bitterness of the weather outside.

It was warmer in here – not by much – but at the very least, she could _see_. Nerysiel removed her snow fogged goggles, resting them on the rim of her hat, as Terciel did the same, allowing his to hang loosely around his neck, avoiding the paws that promptly disappeared somewhere into his hood where it was always warm and cosy. 

Their abductors were slower to reveal themselves – and shorter than Nerysiel was expecting. The mittens remained, but dropped hoods and unwrapped scarves revealed faces that couldn't be much past their teens. So similar, so uncanny in expression that Nerysiel knew they were twins. The mirrored actions also helped, each article of clothing peeled back at the exact same time, a coupled gesture as they beckoned their visitors forward. Their blue eyes were sharp and keen yet also tired, as if they had spent many unproductive hours waiting, and the enthusiasm in which they should have greeted their guests had long since worn off.

Or not, as with a wall between them and the outside world, and Terciel and Nerysiel in much closer proximity, they claimed each of Terciel's respective arms with their own, and kissed him simultaneously on each cheek. "Terciel, welcome," they said together. "It has been much too long," the one on his left lamented, and the one to his right hummed in agreement.

"Sanar, Ryelle," he replied in kind, the pair pre-emptively moving their own cheeks into position so they would not have to let go. "Too long indeed. It is good to see you both, cousins."

"Yes," Ryelle – or was it Sanar? – agreed thoughtfully, but their grip relaxed, as they both rounded on the unknown member of the party. Nerysiel felt her back straighten at the doubled attention. Was she supposed to kiss their cheeks, or courtesy? Or was it just a more familiar thing? Did visitors of her calibre even usually arrive during a blizzard on a Paperwing alongside the Abhorsen, as his wife?

The twin Clayr didn't leave her wondering. Sanar stepped forward first, kissing both her cheeks. "Nerysiel," she smiled, pulling back – Ryelle took her place, mimicking her sister's actions. "Welcome," she finished.

For a moment, Nerysiel stared at them, blankly. To greet her with that same familiarity was one thing, but she was so used to being addressed in an official calibre as 'the Abhorsen's chosen' or 'the huntress' in their by proxy communications that she had subconsciously suspected that they did not know her name, or that they didn't care to use it. It was… nice, and very much wanted, to be proved wrong - to still be Nerysiel, in person.

They must have seen some expression or thought cross her face, for the twins smiled further. "Any associate that the Abhorsen trusts implicitly, we would know," they echoed. 

"And a partner is not taken lightly," Ryelle added. 

"Indeed," agreed Sanar. "As the combined voice of the Nine Day Watch, we speak for the Clayr, and so when we say we have looked forward to meeting you, that goes for all of us."

Nerysiel scrambled to remember what half of those words meant, but she felt the assurance behind them. 

She was not unwelcome here, not out of place – after so much time spent with Terciel and only Terciel to trust, the only one she truly knew, and them so often faced by citizenry whom expected a miracle despite decades of fear and shunning, to instead be stood opposite two people who had extended genuine friendship and welcome… it was a feeling of community and love she had almost forgotten, what with her so wrapped up in the Old Kingdom's needs. She could not _relax_ , exactly, but it did banish the last of her nerves, the last bit of doubt that had dogged her through their entire journey to the Glacier.

"Thank you," she replied, with feeling. "And I, as well, of course, and, do I- should- should I kiss your cheeks?"

The twins laughed, but it was not unkind. It was with a warmness that was quite out of place on the top of a frozen mountain. 

"You don't have to," Sanar assured. "It's a custom that has endured… but do not feel pressured."

"Perhaps later, when we know each other better," Ryelle continued. She looked at her mitten covered hands, glumly. "We would bring your Paperwing inside, but what with the weather…"

"You both are the Voice of the Watch, are you not?" Terciel interrupted, because he had an inkling that the pair of Clayr were about to smile sweetly at him and make him go back outside in the cold to retrieve his craft. It was either instinct or a side effect of living chivalrously with Mogget, who was a master at pushing people into doing whatever he wanted.

"Yes," Ryelle nodded. "Or, we were – are still – but we have both been gone quite some time. We wished to greet you personally, so it was allowed. Yet, I'm afraid we muddled our whens, and we had expected you both much sooner."

That explained why they both looked frozen, and their enthusiasm for Paperwing retrieval was so low. Terciel shuffled from one foot to the other as his brow furrowed. To send the paired Voice to retrieve guests, even if one was the Abhorsen could only mean… 

"Does… whatever we're here for… involve the Watch, and what they have Seen, then?"

Ryelle and Sanar exchanged a look. Sanar nodded. "It does, in fact. Very astute."

"You are giving me undue credit," Terciel smiled, weakly, dismissing the praise. "The future is your trade, as death is mine. Given the state of things, there is little time for social gatherings, always with too much to be done… and if whatever future has been seen cannot be relayed or transcribed, it is within reason that you would wish for me – that is, the Abhorsen – to see it for himself."

The twins blinked, in unison – taking note of the exhaustion that hung over Terciel and Nerysiel both like a cloud, as would the humidity prior to a thunderstorm that was yet to break. They did not need their frozen water to know their energy was depleted, that they were tired and unrested, that there was always one more place for the Abhorsen to attend, always one more thing for him to do. And, even if they wished otherwise, they could do nothing to assist in his endeavours. They could offer advice, they could act as a guide, but there was nothing they could really, truly _do_ to share the burden – a burden that most of the Clayr did not fully understand, as isolated and protected as they were.

Here, in their Glacier, life was as it had always been… the Nine Day Watch's foresight of destruction and chaos nonwithstanding.

There was, however, one thing they could do, and that was _See._

"You think it is something truly unspeakable and terrible, don't you?"

The pair of Clayr's expressions changed. It was not quite pity, though on first glance many would mistake it as such – it was a look of understanding, and of sorrow. And sympathy, as the Abhorsen and the huntress could not imagine a scenario where what the Clayr had to tell them was positive. 

Terciel had a lifetime of experience at reading people and what they wanted – or didn't – want of him, and took their look as meant. He couldn't hold their gaze, though, looking away to the crates that were lined up along the wall. Sympathy… was not something many had felt with regard to him, in recent months. The people of the Old Kingdom did not look upon him as a person, the way that Sanar and Ryelle were – the people only looked up to him, as if he would be their salvation. 

And he already knew he could not be everywhere, could not do everything, could not save everyone, and their support of him would wane. He had failed, and would continue to fail – he could not perform damage control, nor merely react, forever. He had to take a stand, he had to go on the offensive… and for that to happen he would need to research and withdraw. In either situation, someone else would suffer.

Should he think about it too much, he would crumble, and as he was so often forced to do, Terciel pushed it aside, in favour of business. Always business. And his business, by definition, was not one of light and goodness. 

Though he had thought it to be terrible, it felt too grave to admit it. And ultimately, he didn't know how to answer them.

Nerysiel did, though she was just as troubled by Sanar and Ryelle's statement. Their words were a lifeline – something stirred within her, a glint of something she couldn't quite remember the name for. 

"If it's not something bad that we are meant to see…"

"We have seen hope," Sanar affirmed, quickly.

"And it seems," Ryelle continued, "that you have a greater need of it than we first believed. Come. There is no time to lose. We will take you to the Observatory. You will see it for yourselves."

\- - - -

It was as though the city had been hastily drawn – the edges faded and frayed. Only the prominent features were splashed with colour, the rest grey and dark – the focus of the vision giver swooped and swerved, its owner at a run, almost flying as streets and vendors and people blurred past, conversations snatched and never wholly understood.

It was Belisaere, but not a Belisaere that they knew. _That_ Belisaere was confined to its aqueducts, vast areas given over to the Dead and left to ruin as the years had rolled by. _This_ Belisaere was nothing like it. Despite the hurry in which it all passed by, this was a Belisaere rebuilt, a Belisaere at peace and unafraid, and not a city fearful and recently lost – men and women and children laughed in the streets, guards were on patrol, and vendors sold the most frivolous of goods that only went to market in peacetime. 

But never did the focus pause, or settle. This was not its destination – not here as the guard saluted, not here as a child played with its doll, not here as a door was closed and entrance was barred. The ground underfoot became sloped, the streets built up around the steps, and Belisaere's people crowded it, travelling alongside them. It was a greater effort to keep going upward, to dodge them, to see what was just around the corner-

They passed gilded gates and flowerbeds, trees in springtime bloom and a whirlwind of blossoms, obscuring the view further – a sea of people jostled, and impatient, the vision giver impossibly leapt above them, bounding from tree to tree along the aisle until it came to a magnificent courtyard in the centre of the palace grounds.

The palace in the present was destroyed and gone, burned to the ground by torch and Free Magic flame, a symbol of a Kingdom divided and lost without the royal bloodline – but not here in this time, not any longer. Here it was rebuilt yet also changed, fit for its purpose. The outer walls faced the sea, its guards and walls pelted by seaspray which offered it protection; its towers spindled, its chimneys smoked with food on the fire; and the soft bay of countless horses resounded somewhere behind its bulk. It was a palace inhabited and very much alive with its sights and sounds and smells, and today, today much of its cohort were outside in the courtyard, lavishly dressed and decorated; instruments boisterous, tables full to bursting with untouched food, as dancing was underway. 

And then it ceased as trumpets sounded, and doors leading inward were doubly opened, and someone stepped out.

It was a woman, of similar age to the vision's intended audience, somewhere in her middling twenties. Her gown was simple and well fitted, tied snugly to her body in places, as if a seamstress somewhere had hastily made an adjustment at the wearer's refusal to wear the fashion, be it something with a train, or that required a bustle. The dress' lowest hem skirted the stoned floor, and upon it, a thousand tiny golden towers had been studded in a never ending loop against the deep red, almost black backdrop, a stark contrast to the washed out white that was the rest of the gown – and despite how pale the dress was, it didn't compare to the pallor of its owner, her skin whiter still.

Her hair, a dark brownish black, was straightened to her middle back, though deft fingers had laced two braids together too, held together by a silver hairpiece; but this was not what drew the hushed crowd's eye, or the vision giver's interest or attention. It was the gilded crown atop her head, the crown bestowed upon her today, at her coronation as she succeeded the one that came before her – her expression resolute and most of all _ready_ , officially taken and finite, at long last.

She looked to her left, presumably to those very same people who had ruled before her – the focus shifted for no longer than a couple of seconds, as if reluctant to leave her. The brief sideways glance came with a small gaggle of people with similar looking attire, surcoats and emblems and all, but no face or person truly clear – and then it returned to the woman who would be Queen, her head held high.

Somewhere, someone's voiced boomed, ringing out above the trumpets that heralded her.

"Her majesty, Queen Ellimere."

The Old Kingdom's Queen and the palace flickered to the roar of the crowd's cheer, becoming all the more distant and distorted as its focus was lost, its message given - and much like a candle, was snuffed out to nothing, and then, darkness.

The frozen pane of ice shattered, and far away from Belisaere in the Observatory of the Clayr's Glacier, Terciel and Nerysiel staggered forward, catching each other in their disorientation.

Sanar and Ryelle stood opposite them, flanked by forty seven Clayr, linked arm in arm in a great circle. Both twins held a star-topped wand in their hands, which had been used to focus the Sight for those without - and with their use fulfilled, the two Clayr had lowered them, their interest now lying elsewhere. But it wasn't each other, or the disentangled Clayr who began to murmur amongst themselves – Seeing, after all, was not a new thing to them – that they watched, but the Abhorsen and his chosen. 

Though their initial disorientation had passed, they still held unto each other, refusing to part, as they processed what they had just witnessed.

 _'It is but one future – and we cannot tell you how it comes to pass,'_ the twins had forewarned them in advance – there were far more, and many, that led to destruction and failure – but that did not matter.

It was a dual realisation, understood by the glimmer in the other's eye. Somehow, in an as of yet undecided, unknown way, the royal bloodline was not lost, and if they kept to their shared path, the Old Kingdom would see itself a new Queen.

The Clary's Seen future had been their first, and so far only, piece of good news.


	27. Stars Below

The Abhorsen's rooms in the Glacier were as dark as they were silent, the awaited night keenly embraced. Dinner had long since been eaten and the curious, giggling young Clayr on kitchen duty long since departed – much to their disappointment, as they had spent a great deal of time ogling the Abhorsen in question. 

Even Nerysiel's presence had not deterred them, and Terciel had no doubt they knew who she _was_ in relation to him. They were as equally as friendly to her, in fact; probably a reflection of their relationship habits and that marriage was not a concept they entertained often, and thus did not overly bother them. That or they were merely teenage girls who boldly (and badly) flirted and giggled at him as they thought him attractive. 

Terciel certainly didn't think himself as _un_ attractive, exactly, but as the dinner went on, he felt as though he had more in common with the slab of meat on his plate than he did as a fellow person. Terciel feared very little, but the girl's unabashed stares had put him on edge, the rarity of a man in their midst meaning they wished to commit every detail of him to memory, scrutinising his every move: it had been a long evening, an evening that would have been better served with resting or reading, not dealing with the (unwanted) advances of several very persistent teenage girls. When they finally departed – curfew, he supposed – he was fairly certain he would have much preferred facing several Greater Dead.

In all, it had left him somewhat restless, with too much energy and nothing to channel it into. They had retired to the sitting room, but that hadn't lasted; when Nerysiel started yawning in her armchair across from his – an antiquated, wooden thing, upholstered with plush blue fabric, a relic of Hillfair, as was the rest of the furniture in every inch of this wing – he opted for bed, hoping that would be the end of it, and they could catch some much needed sleep before their departure first thing in the morning.

Or not. How long it had been, he wasn't sure, be it minutes or hours – but what he was sure of was that he was still very much awake.

The tiny sequinned silver keys that patterned the ceiling were his only company, an aimless distraction as they refracted the dim light that spilled in from the open doorway - where the sitting room faced the mountain, and the snow glinted through transparent glass. The mountain he couldn't see, but he knew it was there, and he also knew it wouldn't be bothering him with its light now if he'd only closed the door to begin with. He'd forgotten, singlemindedly seeking sleep. Privacy had been far from his mind, in retrospect: Mogget would come and go as he pleased, and the only person to share these rooms with was at his side – safe in the nook of his arm, breathing rhythmically in and out, lost to sleep.

Truthfully, Terciel envied that she could. And, just as honestly, it wasn't the wholly unpleasant evening that had kept him from drifting off, either – _that_ was because of the future the Clayr had shown them.

Combined with his excess energy, it was all he could think of, over and over again. 

It did not matter how removed it was becoming, as time stretched from his first and also final viewing. The piece of future stayed vivid in his mind – the familiar yet strange streets, the joyful celebration that only came in peacetime – and the young woman that would be the thread that rewound a part of the Old Kingdom back together.

Her gaze, her look, stuck in his mind. She seemed incredibly familiar, somehow, but he couldn't quite put his finger on as to why.

He knew he shouldn't obsess, that he should let it lie… but he couldn't seem to stop himself. There was a possibility of it – of her – being circumstantial, and there was no knowing _when_ her coronation would happen. It could be decades, or centuries still; the result of many years toil, and not to be resolved overnight. First would be Kerrigor, then the necromancers and Dead left behind in his wake, then finding – impossibly! – a still living person of the royal bloodline, then – again, impossibly – mending the Great Charter Stones beneath what remained of the palace, and finally the restoration of the city and the Kingdom… there was so much to be doing, so much he could better serve the Old Kingdom doing by not lying here in bed.

There was no knowing when, but this future would not be anytime soon. This future Queen would not magically appear. Perhaps he would not even be the one to fulfil all of it. The Charter might be mended in the long run, but it would be a long, slow and steady road in order to get there.

He was quite firmly stuck in the limbo that was the present, and so Terciel's thoughts revolved in ever decreasing circles as the minutes slipped by. It was hope the Clayr had offered, but it was not a guarantee, and that bothered him. Charter curse him for not being able to accept the gift Sanar and Ryelle had offered them as it was meant to be taken, and him for being unfailingly able to turn it into another of his burdens instead. Typically.

In an ideal world, Terciel would have found himself relieved and hopeful, his troubles well-eased: or, at the very least, he would receive one night of restful sleep. It seemed that was not to be the case.

And as his mind was truly incapable of letting him rest, there was the quiet reminder that this possible future would only happen if – and only if – certain events came to pass. And they had no idea of knowing what those were, either, and who knew if those catalysts would be good or bad? What would be planned for, what would be in the Clayr's deemed favour, and what would be against? 

And would it all truly matter, in the end, if these things were inevitable?

That riled him too: a nagging feeling that gripped and tugged at him, as if he were forgetting something important. Much of his mind was rallying around its point, now, insisting that something was amiss, and the part that wished for sleep was losing, roused by the idea of the _what if_ – what if there was indeed something that had been overlooked? It was as though he had all the pieces to this particular puzzle, but for whatever reason, could not see the bigger picture in order to fit them all together…

Unfortunately for him, he had a lifetime of being trained to ask those sort of questions, and tonight, it was working against him. Around and around his mind went, questioning, thinking, offering fresh as well as repeated perspectives, but none of them were conclusive.

He considered waking Nerysiel to seek her counsel, or seeking out Mogget for his prickly perspective – but he decided against both. Instead he gingerly untangled himself from his love's embrace, and slid out of bed, feet snug in well placed slippers. Shuffling about in the semi-dark, he picked up his undershirt and breeches, feeling about for the right holes for each limb – walking about the Glacier in nothing but his underwear wasn't exactly a valid option.

(He was reminded, briefly, of the kitchen duty Clayr. _That_ would truly be a nightmarish encounter.)

The best thing to do when unable to sleep and weighed down by burdened, uncooperative thoughts was, in his opinion, to go for a walk. Deciding that was remarkably quick given how circular the rest of his thoughts had been, but late night wanderings were not revolutionary ideas, and it was not the first he had taken one. If, at the end of his walk, the matter was unresolved, at least he would be in a better position to sleep thanks to the physical exertion, and better equipped to think about his problem another day.

The going decided, all that remained was the matter of where to go. 

A midnight walk was so often a luxury, now, so often not feasible outside the boundaries of the House, and Terciel felt a little thrill as he left the Abhorsen's rooms, branching out into the unfamiliar territory that was the Glacier's underbelly. It was unfamiliar territory that was also objectively safe, which was an even greater treat - well, _safe_ as long as he didn't wander where he shouldn't, as he knew better than to assume otherwise. Old, unspeakable things liked to linger where bloodlines dwelt, and he need only look at his reluctant cat shaped family servant for evidence of that. And the guest wing would be a safe enough starting point, either way, as ancient things chasing down and potentially killing curious guests would undoubtedly not go over well for his hosts.

Still, there was only one path to take that led anywhere that wasn't another guest wing, so he took it. The plethora of tunnels that led every which way into the mountain and below would come, given time: and enough pacing. For now, it was good just to stretch his legs, to focus on his limited late night discoveries.

Even if those discoveries were tunnels and curved, low ceilings and more tunnels and steps beyond counting. He didn't have many side tunnels to take, and fewer staircases to climb. In fact, there were only two staircases in close proximity, his first major choice. One flight ascended. The other descended.

Logically the upward one would lead back to the Paperwing and outside – deduced entirely from the fact the stairs went _up_ and those things were on the mountain, not beneath – but those stairs could just as easily lead off to the kitchens or the library, or somewhere else entirely. Like living areas. As much as he wanted to wander, he didn't want to have to explain himself to a stern faced, you-made-me-get-out-of-bed-for-this Clayr. 

He sympathised with that perspective. He didn't like being forced out of bed, either. And what if he ran into those kitchen girls again? He felt another shudder. No, down was better. Less likely to run into someone that way.

Terciel was about a hundred steps down – counting gave his overeager mind something else to do besides overthinking fragmented futures – when he heard water, and felt the temperature sharply drop from warm to chilly, as if some Charter spell to deaden both had broken as he took one step too many, and he was acutely reminded that he had neglected his surcoat. Despite summer being alien to the frozen mountain, it might have been making some difference: it was not too unpleasant for him to be forced to turn back, and the sound of rushing water intrigued him, as would any mystery. It was too loud, and sounded much too forceful to be naught but a river…

The source of the Ratterlin, perhaps? It would make sense for the bloodlines to have a private staircase down to any jetty. He supposed that at one time, many boats would have lined up along that imagined jetty, full of people seeking counsel and respite. Now Abhorsens were much more likely to use a Paperwing, himself included. A much faster means of travel than by boat, but the flight-giving Paperwings were a much more recent invention than river travel.

Now, as he reached what would be the pier, the bank of the early wisp of a river was empty, save for a solitary piece of sodden rope, long forgotten. Much had changed.

It was a strange testament to how very much _the last_ he was. 

Terciel quickly moved on, removing his slippers for fear they would be ruined in much the same manner as the forgotten rope. It also provided better purchase; though the gap between river and cave wall was enough to fit three people abreast, it lacked maintenance, and bits of it had fallen away, giving rise to errant spray that made the path an extremely slippery endeavour, always somewhat soaked. Instead of his slippers, he worried for his breeches, as he didn't much fancy having to dry them out before tomorrow's flight.

Now the mystery what lied at the base of the stairs was solved, and the cave began regular as it winded its way past the thinning river into the mountain, his mind had little to do but return to what had plagued him when abed.

And he had to wonder just how far he was planning to walk in order to avoid it.

\- - - -

Nerysiel awoke to something tickling her nose.

She didn't want to wake up – the bed was soft and warm, and she'd made a perfect, cosy indent – but her nose had other plans. She sneezed explosively once, then twice, narrowly stemming a third with a hasty pinch, causing something else to yowl with objection as she did so.

Wearily, she opened her watery eyes, already knowing who the perpetrator was. 

It was Mogget, who had retreated some ways back onto her bedside table – her nose grab had the unintended bonus of yanking several stray bits of down from his tail, which he had unwisely left tickling against her face. His until then pleased looked about disturbing his not-mistress' sleep was now one of woe from the unexpected loss of excess fluff.

"My tail," he lamented.

Nerysiel didn't dignify him with an answer: it was his fault for waking her, and he deserved whatever he got. And better yet, she was the one who should be rightfully lamenting, or annoyed, because he had woken her for nothing but his own amusement. She had thought their almost, not-quite friendship was past this petty behaviour, but since Terciel had donned his new mantle, Mogget had grown ever the more incessant. She didn't know if it was out of fondness, or something more sinister, such as testing his new boundaries.

She scowled at him. Right now she didn't care to figure out his whys. She might have turned over, given him the cold shoulder – that was, until she belatedly registered that she was alone.

She didn't have to look. Nerysiel knew Terciel wasn't there beside her by instinct, by the lack of his presence. When she turned onto her back and let her hand fall where his torso should have been, there was nothing; just her hand lightly thudding against the well-sprung mattress and bunched sheets, disturbed some time ago. 

Briefly, she glanced at the vacant, mussed pillow. Imagining him there. His absence itself was not unusual, as they often slept in shifts – but he would be close, no further than several paces at most. Always in calling distance. But she didn't have to venture into the rest of the wing to know that she would not find Terciel in the Abhorsen's guest rooms. 

Nerysiel sat up, covers tugged around her middle to stay the night air, and fixed Mogget with a no-nonsense look. "Where is Terciel?"

"No idea," Mogget… shrugged, his shoulders rippling as it became a full body stretch, his tail's near miss gotten over or possibly forgotten. "Didn't want to wake you, wherever he went."

 _Unlike a scheming pat cat_ , Nerysiel thought. 

Mogget's wording, as always, was particular – he clearly knew Terciel had _gone_ , just not to exactly where, and had answered as such. When he'd just woken her out of a long wanted, easy sleep, she lacked the patience to deal with him and his infuriating manner, and it showed, as her scowl deepened and she grunted under her breath, more growl than mumble. "You saw him go?"

"To that effect," Mogget yawned. "It's hard to wander where you're not welcome, but it's such a novelty to be taken out on a pleasure trip by those I serve. Did you know there are at least three rooms in this wing piled high with Hillfair furniture? Those Abhorsens of the past few hundred years were ever gaudy and content to do nothing, you know…"

"I don't want to hear about those _past_ Abhorsens," Nerysiel remarked crossly, pinching her nose again, this time from annoyance. She knew he was winding her up just so, and it was working, but she didn't care; she just wanted a straight answer. "And if you're not going to tell me anything, I might as well find him for himself, seeing as your plan was a success."

Mogget licked a paw; it vaguely smelled of fish. "What plan?" he asked innocently.

Nerysiel ignored him, though she felt her hands tighten to fists against the sheets as she reluctantly parted from them. She fished about for clothing, hands automatically reaching for Terciel's surcoat before retrieving her own shirt instead, pulling up her breeches one handed, mind already racing out the room towards wherever Terciel was, where he was likely over-thinking things, as was his way.

Bedroom departed and bed just as empty, Mogget pounced between the two slept-on pillows, meowing in satisfaction. As Nerysiel crossed the corridor to the entranceway of the wing, she could have sworn she heard a distant _'yipee'._

Of course that was what he actually wanted all along: the bed. _Stupid house cat._ Maybe, just maybe, she should stop treating him like one, and he'd be less inclined to act the part…

Nerysiel pushed him aside. She could allow the sleepy, irritable part of her mind to focus solely on Mogget later; for now, she had to focus on Terciel. Chosen, in all meanings of the word; whatever ailed him, she would attempt to soothe. That was why they were partners. They worked best when they were together, able to riddle out and persevere where they could not alone.

That, or they understood the truest sadness, the deepest abyss that was loss, and the other was their crutch, the one to hold them up – but it was not a bad thing. They acknowledged that they needed each other to be better. Pain shared was a bittersweet thing. 

And if he needed her, she would go to him.

Nerysiel didn't overthink what path to take, or where to start looking – she went by instinct, the glow of inlaid Charter marks overhead alight and buzzing with her presence, returning to dormancy when she'd passed them by. It helped that the paths were few, and her only real choice to make was up or down. She considered it for several seconds, feet absently wanting to make the ascent, one foot already half way up the first step, until she changed her mind, and took the downward spiral instead.

It was slow going. The stairs were thin, notably hand carved, and the size of one was not the same as the next, particularly as they turned inward, almost in on themselves, and she found herself lacking in patience for them, not getting anywhere fast. It was obviously not a well traversed passage, at least not in recent years – there were Charter marks here, too, but faded, and most of them did not move when she passed by. A non-renewal of old, overlaid spells, if her more recent book studying was accurate; a lasting impression, but they would light the way no more.

Nerysiel could smell the telltale sign of water seconds before she heard it. The silent stairwell gave way to an ear-numbing roar in but a single step, and she knew it was another spell to stave off cold and sound, this one intact… though whomever had done it had not taken a hunter's keen senses into account, overlooking the damp taste and smell of air. She smiled absently. Even if she were not a hunter as such any longer, those senses had not dimmed, not when put to constant use. She had once hunted game; now she hunted something far more sinister.

At the bottom of the stair, Nerysiel could just about make out the mouth of the river, though its width was lost to her on account to how pitch black the night was despite the dim glow caused by the pure white snow. Moonlight bounced from the snow and across the water's surface, caught on the cavern wall and shimmering back upward, but anything beyond the nearest twenty paces of river or so was lost to her, and impossible to make out.

She couldn't imagine what Terciel would be doing down here. The man loved his home comforts, and the river was enough to ruin the best of his clothes by exploring for mere curiosity's sake. Not that she would put it past him to seek out the source of the mountain spring because it had tickled a fancy, but…

No, it had to be over-thinking, the tight grip of insomnia as he shouldered burdens that were not meant for one man alone. Avoidance, perhaps, until he could walk no more, and he would be confronted by the ghosts he sought to avoid. 

And if anything had got him thinking, it had to be the glimpse of a possible future that the Clayr had shown them. Sanar and Ryelle had been extremely specific that it was a possibility. One of many, many glimpses, something that could happen – meant as a spur to keep them both going on their aligned path – that their efforts would lead to _something_ , someday.

It had been a relief. In so much bad, to hear of something good, even so far away… it did not solve everything, but it had gifted her with a hearty meal and an easier road to sleep, and Nerysiel had slept deeply and gladly until interrupted otherwise. That same speck of hopefulness had clearly had the opposite effect on Terciel, and set him thinking.

Now she was thinking too. So much to do, for however long… always so much _left_ to do. So much that she _couldn't_ do, that neither of them could – so much that would be left to whatever came after them, in the future.

It was hard to picture anything personal, and it was not for lack of trying. Something imminent, absolutely, but something lasting? Something that would outlast their fight to restore what was lost? Whenever she tried, Nerysiel's mind summoned the image of her nightmare, that was not an image at all, and had been real. 

Nerysiel absently picked her way between footholds, scratching about for purchase as she continued deeper into the cavern. Kerrigor. He would come back and try to destroy she and Terciel both. It was inevitable. If her nightmare was a splintering, a concentration of Sight, then… then…

Facing Kerrigor would take her future. Wouldn't it?

Why? Kerrigor had been the taker of so many lives for his own ends, and she would just be another person in his path to wipe away. There had to be more to it, but perhaps there wasn't meant to be a why. Perhaps it simply was, and that was what the Sight had wanted her to know.

But still, she had joined with Terciel, and still she was here, not fleeing in terror. It made her wonder how much of a choice any of this had truly ever been. 

The river was closer to a trickle now, interspersed by gaping pools and narrow channels. It was quieter – the sort of quiet that came about when dawn was about to break – and as if on cue, it did, the softest of rays glinting across the water, throwing that same light deeper into the cave, to where Nerysiel currently tread.

And not just her. Unable to see him before dawn's blessing, Terciel had been mere paces away.

His back was to her, but as she stopped, she gently whispered his name.

"Terciel."

It was lost quickly, the smallest of echoes through lack of volume. And even though Terciel did not move, he had heard it, the muddling of his thoughts gaining a little clarity as she announced herself.

It seemed inevitable, really. She would appear just as he needed her to be there – at the very moment when he needed to see her. He turned, and his smile was sad, and oddly when it came to her, somewhat broken.

"I've been thinking," he ventured.

Nerysiel was caught off guard by his expression. It was not a look that suited him, one she had not expected him to find at the conclusion of his thoughts. Something must be extremely wrong.

He didn't move, so Nerysiel took a step toward him instead: enough not to startle him, but not close enough for her liking. "About what?"

"The Abhorsen - my aunt," he corrected, hurriedly. It was hard to distinguish one from the other, and harder still to assign it as his own name, especially when he spoke of her. "Before she left for Belisaere, she said something to me – did something, more accurately. I thought it odd at the time, that she was so assured in what our respective paths ought to be, but I didn't really question… it had to be done. One of us to Belisaere, one of us elsewhere, and she made sure _I_ was the one to be going _elsewhere_."

He paused, taking an involuntary step forward. He rocked on his feet, his tiredness finally having caught up with him; but his eyes were clouded, his face cut from marble, and despite his stillness he was agitated, but too solemn to do anything about it.

And whatever he was trying to say was lost to her. Nerysiel frowned, wishing she did, not wanting to cut this wound any further. She covered their remaining distance, less than three paces apart, and she wanted to reach out for him, but knew it was unwise. She swallowed, wanting for a better answer to give him. "I don't understand."

"Neither did I." He couldn't keep eye contact, but it was hard not to look at her so close, when she was there in his perspective at every angle. "She knew. She knew about _you_ , Nelle. Perhaps not specifically, and never by name, and not what would happen, but why else would she tell me to return to my companion in life? She allowed – sent – me to High Bridge purposefully, all in order to find _you_ , and that we would then come to Belisaere together, to find her. I didn't… there was so much to be done. Whatever she had been hiding? I didn't have time to think on it. All of it might have been coincidence, besides. And then today, here, at the Glacier, when the Watch showed us their glimpse of the future, something clicked into place. It took me all night to riddle out what it was – but I understand it now."

She knew his revelation was coming, and he was too many steps ahead of her, his knowledge too fresh for her to decipher entirely and reach his same conclusion. She said nothing – but that poisoned doubt, what had begun to eat him, ate at her too.

What he would say would change everything and they were both powerless to change it, now they he knew.

Nerysiel felt the need, the incredible want, to run – but couldn't, her feet forgetting their simplest of functions. The river bubbled, and the sun chased the last of the night's dying stars reflected at their feet.

"The Clayr Saw _us_."

He sounded much the way he did the night when she'd fallen out of the Paperwing, or when his aunt hadn't come back.

"And they made it so we would be together."


End file.
